


Castling

by GrumpyGhostOwl



Series: Battle of the Planets: 2163 [32]
Category: Battle of the Planets, Kagaku Ninja Tai Gatchaman & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Eventual Romance, Footnotes, Things-fall-down-go-"Boom!"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-03 02:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12739566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpyGhostOwl/pseuds/GrumpyGhostOwl
Summary: The Federation plans to hold the 117th Annual Interplanetary Security Conference on the planet Albion. Mark plans to give his team some time off. Zoltar plans on spoiling it for everyone. A love story in nine chapters with guns, knives, politics, violence, bloodshed... and opera.This story follows on directly from 'Your Wildest Dreams.'





	1. White King

**Author's Note:**

> Castling is a chess move where, under certain conditions, the king and the rook may move at the same time, with the pieces crossing over on the first rank. It moves the king to a safer position away from the middle of the board and puts the rook in a more active position near the centre.
> 
> Thank you to Katblu42 for beta-reading and pointing out all the plot-holes.

David Anderson stood in the hospital carpark. Zoltar of Spectra had Anderson’s staff liaison officer in an arm lock, a gun pressed against her temple. Lieutenant Colonel Jones was struggling helplessly in Zoltar’s grip, her body positioned in front of her captor’s, an unwilling human shield.  
  
Anderson looked down to see a gun in his hand.  
  
“Take the shot,” Jones said. She stopped fighting and went still, meeting Anderson’s eyes with a calm, clear gaze. “You have to take the shot, sir.”  
  
Anderson’s arm swept up in a smooth arc and he sighted down the barrel of the gun.  
  
“Do you really want her to die?” Zoltar taunted, grinning under the purple mask.  
  
“No,” Anderson said, “I want _you_ to die _.”_  
  
He fired.  
  
Zoltar fell backward and Jones crumpled to the ground, a red stain spreading on her white silk blouse.  
  
Anderson ran and knelt beside the fallen officer. He eased an arm behind her shoulders and raised her up so that her head rested against his chest. There was blood, bright arterial blood. Way too much blood.  
  
“Al, hold on –” he started to say. She caught his hand and he held it tightly. There was so much blood.  
  
“It’s all right,” she told him. “You did the right thing,” she said, and died.  
  
_BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_  
  
Security Chief Anderson woke up and slapped several times at his alarm clock before he managed to hit the snooze button. He turned over and pulled the covers over his head. _That damned dream!_ It was stupid and it made no sense, but it always left him feeling drained and shaken.  
  
This was here, he reminded himself. This was now. _Be here now_. Zoltar had never held Lieutenant Colonel Jones hostage. (Agent S-9 had tried it once and received the full charge from a taser baton for her trouble.) Furthermore, Anderson had never shot his liaison officer and had no intention of ever doing so. Anderson took a deep breath, held it and released it slowly as he mentally repeated the three words he’d been using to anchor himself for the last eight weeks: _Be here now._  
  
Ah, yes. Here and now.  
  
Today was the day. G-Sec’s head psychologist Adrienne McCall had declared that Anderson had regained a sufficient quantity of his marbles to go back to running the biggest intelligence and security agency in the Milky Way Galaxy. Anderson wasn’t entirely sure he believed her.  
  
_Yay, me. I’m sane… apparently._  
  
_I_ am _sane, aren’t I? Would I know if I wasn’t?_  
  
It dawned on Anderson that lying with his head under the covers was not only uncomfortably stuffy but also faintly ridiculous. He lay on his back, readjusted the bedclothes and stared at the ceiling for a while to see if helped. It was still dark, and the faint light of the alarm clock display meant there wasn’t really all that much to stare _at_ , but as ceilings went, it was pretty generic, being flat, white and basically uninteresting. It didn’t take a lot of imagination to visualise it, even if it was too dark to actually see anything.  
  
_BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_  
  
_Oh, for crying out loud…_  
  
Anderson turned the alarm off – the display read 05:10 – then switched the bedside lamp on and got out of bed. He trudged toward the bathroom to start his day.  
  
  
  
  
One hour later, in the pre-dawn gloom, Anderson stood in his driveway and stared at the black limousine that waited for him. He was dressed for the office in a grey business suit, his dark reddish-brown hair neatly combed and his briefcase in one hand. On a normal day, he would simply walk straight out of his front door and get into the car without a second thought.  
  
It was just a car.  
  
It was the same car – or one very much like it – that he’d ridden in hundreds of times before. Just a car.  
  
His heart was pounding, his mouth was dry and he could feel his skin going clammy with sweat.  
  
It was just a car for heaven’s sake!  
  
This wasn’t exactly a normal day, though.  
  
David Anderson told himself to get into the armoured limousine – it was safe. It was designed to be safe. These cars had been keeping him safe for as long as he’d been the Chief of Galaxy Security.  
  
Except once.  
  
Two months earlier, a Spectra ship had managed to slip past Earth’s planetary defences, grappled Anderson’s limousine, lifted it clear of the highway and taken its occupants prisoner. Anderson didn’t remember anything much beyond the vehicle being grabbed and getting airborne. It had taken maybe half a minute before he – along with the other occupants of the vehicle – had been rendered unconscious by way of a potent anaesthetic gas.  
  
Between the limousine and waking up, he’d been put through a series of virtual scenarios designed to break him.  
  
It hadn’t worked, but if the operators of the virtual reality programme had found Anderson’s weakness, it could have been a disaster. They’d made what Anderson regarded as a classic mistake: they’d focussed on his friendship with Colonel Jones and tried to get to him that way. His real Achilles’ Heel was of course his five children. Had Anderson’s interrogators looked too closely there, they might have destroyed him.  
  
Anderson had escaped the virtual reality lab with the help of his security staff, then they had all been rescued by G-Force. Anderson had been flown to Camp Parker where he’d been treated, counselled and analysed until he was heartily sick of it. From there he’d flown back to Center City. Mark and Jason had driven him home from Seahorse Base in the G-2. He hadn’t set foot in an official Galaxy Security vehicle in the intervening weeks.  
  
Now it was time to go back to work and the limo was waiting in the driveway the way it had countless times.  
  
“You forget something, Chief?” Major Alban asked. Shay Alban had been in the car when it had been taken. She’d helped to break Anderson out of the virtual reality he’d been trapped in. She had arrived in that same car. The one he couldn’t get into.  
  
“Hey, Chief!” Mark bounded out of the limousine with all the energy of youth. In contrast to Anderson’s well-groomed executive look, the young commander of G-Force was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with his mane of dark chocolate hair as unruly as a colt’s. “Did you remember to download that data I sent you yesterday?”  
  
Anderson considered his adopted son for a moment. He had no recollection of a data transmission from the young man and Mark was radiating an air of earnest helpfulness.  
  
“Damn,” Anderson said, playing along. “I think I left it on a data strip on my desk.”  
  
“I’ll come help you find it,” Mark declared and followed Anderson back into the house.  
  
Anderson stopped in the hallway, hands clenched into fists at his side. He found himself unwilling to meet Mark’s concerned gaze. “It’s just a damned car...” he said.  
  
“Hey,” Mark said. “You’ve been through a lot, Dad. Anyone’d be nervous getting back into a situation like that. I’ve lost my nerve before, remember?”  
  
“Since when have you been so perceptive?” Anderson quipped.  
  
“Colonel Jones asked me to keep an eye on you,” Mark said. “She told me it took her fifteen minutes to stop shaking the first time she got back into a G-Sec limo and that you wouldn’t want to show any weakness in front of your protection detail.”  
  
“I may have to fire her,” Anderson muttered. “She knows me too well.”  
  
“Well, you’ll have to get to the office to do it,” Mark said. “Come on. One for all, all for one _et cetera_.”  
  
“Thanks, Mark,” Anderson said, and the two men walked out to the car together.  
  
  
  
  
Getting out of the car was a lot easier than getting in once the limousine arrived in the underground parking complex of the ISO Tower. Anderson was glad he’d decided to come in early. There had been minimal traffic which meant he didn’t have to sit in gridlock – effectively trapped – for hours on the freeway. Even with Mark riding shotgun and keeping an eye on him, the trip had been somewhat nerve-wracking.  
  
The long elevator ride to the 100 th floor was uneventful, as long as Anderson didn’t count the worried glances Mark kept shooting at him. The doors opened with a soft chime.  
  
Anderson headed for his office. He keyed the access code and the door unlocked. Mark, who had trailed after him, headed for the staff kitchen area.  
  
Anderson switched on the lights in his office and tapped the control to open the blinds on the big picture window. Outside, the sun was coming up and the city was still in grey shadow. The office felt safe. Anderson found this somewhat ironic since he had once come within inches of being killed in his office but he hadn’t broken out in a cold sweat when he returned to work that time. Had this been the straw that broke the camel’s back?  
  
As Anderson settled into his chair, he realised it was set slightly lower than usual. Of course: Deputy Chief Galbraith would have adjusted it while he was Acting Chief of Galaxy Security. Anderson readjusted the chair to his usual settings. He sat down, plugged his palm unit into the desk slot and waited for the desktop display to boot up.  
  
A few minutes later, Mark entered the office carrying two steaming mugs of tea.  
  
“So,” Mark ventured, “is everything the way you left it?”  
  
“Roly’s left the desk disturbingly tidy,” Anderson said, reaching for the mug that Mark offered him. “I’m not going to be able to find anything.”  
  
“Good thing you got here early, then,” Mark said. “Oh, and by the way, I’ve put measures in place to make sure you go home on time. No staying late on your first day back.”  
  
  
  
  
At 08:30, Gunnery Sergeant McAllister reported for duty. “Welcome back, Chief,” McAllister said with a grin.  
  
“Good to be back, Gunny,” Anderson said automatically.  
  
When Roland Galbraith called in, he made a point of sitting on one of the sofas away from the desk, deliberately ceding the big chair back to its appointed incumbent. Anderson felt his breath catch for a moment.  
  
“You okay?” Galbraith asked.  
  
“I just realised how much I’d like to let you have this office permanently,” Anderson said, only half-joking.  
  
“You’ll be out of it again soon enough,” Galbraith said. “The security conference on Albion’s coming up, remember? Besides, the fact that you’re here means Zoltar hasn’t won,” he said.  
  
“Is it just me,” Anderson asked, “or does doing something specifically to defy Zoltar still put him just as much in control of my life as if I did what he wanted me to do?”  
  
“You want my professional advice?” Galbraith asked, raising his eyebrows.  
  
“I seem to be collecting the set,” Anderson mused aloud.  
  
“Don’t make any major decisions just yet,” Galbraith said. “Right now, if you offered me the job I’d be inclined to say no on principle.”  
  
“You’d make a lousy Grand Vizier, you know that?” Anderson said and took a seat on the sofa opposite his deputy.  
  
“I know,” Galbraith said, gesturing at his neatly barbered face. “I just don’t seem to be able to get my beard to grow into an evil point.”  
  
“I guess you’d better bring me up to speed on what’s been happening while I’ve been out of my mind,” Anderson said.


	2. Black King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoltar and Mala hatch a plan. Tiny resolves to make some changes.

The cloaked figure hurried through swirling snow and stopped outside a heavy door. The door was ancient, made of dense, aged hardwood bound with blackened iron. It was a door steeped in history at odds with the shiny electronic security lock fitted to it. The cloaked figure spoke softly into a hidden microphone and a silvery guard plate slid aside to reveal a keypad. A code was entered, there was a weighty series of clicks as tumblers gave way and the cloaked figure was able to open the door by way of an antique iron key.  
  
Inside, the door closed behind the entrant who struggled out of his heavy fur-lined cloak to reveal a tall man in purple and red regalia topped with an outlandish mask with upstanding ears. Zoltar hung up his cloak and breathed deeply of the warm air inside.  
  
“Do not track slush onto the carpet!” Mala called from the next room.  
  
“Slave driver!” Zoltar retorted amiably and trudged into the cloakroom with its worn flagstones and the long row of pegs on the wall. He sat on a low timber bench to begin the process of easing off his tall boots. In stockinged feet, the penultimate ruler of all Spectra padded back into the cosy chamber where Mala was taking her ease on a large day bed piled with cushions. Mala was focussed on a 3D display projected by her palm unit.  
  
Zoltar worked the fastenings of his mask and removed it, shaking out his long golden blonde hair as he did so. The siblings were very much alike, sharing the same fine bone structure, narrow face, vivid green eyes and corn silk hair. Zoltar’s jaw had more strength and Mala was an inch shorter than her brother but there was no mistaking the consanguinity of the two.  
  
Mala looked up as her brother dumped his cape on the floor then flopped unceremoniously into his favourite armchair by the fire and put his feet up to warm them. She could never convince Zoltar that he should not put his feet on the coffee table so Mala had compromised by putting a cushion on the corner he preferred. “What did the Great Spirit say?” Mala asked.  
  
“The Luminous One was gracious enough to approve my mission proposal unaltered,” Zoltar said. “I hope this storm does not last much longer. Just walking to the presence chamber is an ordeal by ice and I have just discovered the hard way that there is a hole in my left boot!”  
  
“The weather will be more clement on Planet Albion,” Mala said. “It is late spring in Prydain.” She leaned back and regarded her brother with some concern. “Are you sure about this?”  
  
“Yes,” Zoltar said. “It must be me. I do not doubt your courage for a moment, but the mission calls for this particular skill of mine that you simply do not possess.”  
  
“I wish you would allow me to accompany you,” Mala said.  
  
“We agreed that you would not,” Zoltar said.  
  
“You mean _you decreed_ that I would not!”  
  
“You know what the Great Spirit has said,” Zoltar said flatly. “Only one of us may be engaged in an off-world mission at any time.”  
  
“I could at least be there as backup – to help you escape when the mission objectives have been achieved. This is dangerous work, Zoltar!”  
  
“It is always dangerous work, sister mine. You must trust me – and my instincts for self-preservation. Now, tell me what you have for me.”  
  
“Very well.” Mala deactivated the holographic display she had been working with. “I have reviewed our files, particularly my poor Viper’s attempt at assassination. The Viper almost succeeded. She was thwarted simply because of bad luck. This conference presents us with an unmissable opportunity! With the interference from Albion’s planet-wide aurora, Galaxy Security will be without its infamous surveillance abilities and we can use the chance to strike. We could still mount a mission without your talents, but if you are bound and determined…”  
  
“I am,” Zoltar said. “So is the Great Spirit. I am confident in my ability to succeed, and even if Anderson does not attend – if the rumours are to be believed we may have wounded him gravely – there will be other targets too powerful to ignore: the ISO Chiefs of Staff, the Secretary of Defence and all their entourages, ripe for the picking!”  
  
“If you succeed,” Mala warned, “the Commander of G-Force will swear vengeance. He already hates you. Our analysis suggests that he may go rogue and make it his mission to kill you. It is in keeping with his mindset.”  
  
“And if he does, it will cripple the rest of the G-Force team. He cannot reach me here, Mala. He may try, but he will fail. He is their strength and their weakness. The success of this mission could render G-Force ineffective. Now, show me the targets you have selected for me.”  
  
  
  
  
The final boarding call sounded over the loudspeaker and flashed urgently on the big screens in the departure lounge.  
  
“This is crazy,” Alice said, blinking moisture from her eyes. “I’ve been wanting to do this for years, and now it’s happening and I don’t want to go!”  
  
“Hey,” Tiny said, “we talked about this, Alice. This is your dream! Your whole family’s dream! How would you feel if you passed up this opportunity?”  
  
“I know all the arguments,” Alice said, sniffing. “I know I have to do this, and I know you said I’d only come to resent you if I stayed, but it still hurts.”  
  
“I’ll visit when I can,” Tiny promised. “And we’ll call each other. Now you heard the boarding call. Babe, you gotta go and be amazing.”  
  
Alice flung her arms around Tiny’s neck and hugged him. “ _You’re_ amazing,” she told him. She kissed him on the cheek, turned and walked away quickly, as if her momentum could carry her all the way to Aquatica.  
  
Tiny stood and watched as Alice disappeared through the security checkpoint. People swirled around him. Others stood at the windows, watching the star liner parked outside the spaceport terminal. Children waved, even though there was little chance of seeing or being seen by the people they were waving to.  
  
“This end of the spaceport’s always a little sad,” Princess said.  
  
Tiny turned to see that Princess had walked up without his noticing and was now standing beside him. Keyop was a couple of paces behind with an ice cream cone.  
  
“Yeah,” Tiny said. “All those people, leaving.”  
  
“Did Alice cry?” Princess asked. “She told me she was going to try not to.”  
  
“Almost,” Tiny said. “I know I shouldn’t be sad. I mean, we both worked on her scholarship application and she got into the programme. I should be happy.”  
  
“No,” Princess said. “You should be happy and sad at the same time, both of you.”  
  
“You’re right,” Tiny said with a sigh.  
  
“You’re allowed to feel whatever you feel, you know,” Princess said.  
  
“When’d you get so wise?” Tiny quipped.  
  
“It’s all those regular debriefs with the psych team,” Princess said. “After a while it starts to sink in. Come on. Let’s head back to Jill’s and I’ll buy you lunch. You look like you could use cheering up.”  
  
  
  
  
Anderson found himself able to get back into the normal rhythms of a normal day and told Lieutenant Colonel Jones as much when she called in to check on him at lunch time. “Situation normal,” he said. “At least, my head hasn’t exploded yet,” he added.  
  
“I’m glad to hear it, sir,” Jones said from the doorway. “Exploding heads make such a frightful mess. You can never really get the marks out of the carpet.” Since taking on the role of Liaison and Protocol Officer to the Chief of Galaxy Security, Jones often eschewed her day uniform in favour of civilian business garb as it was supposed to make her more approachable. Today she had opted for an ultramarine tailored dress that ended just above the knee and a cream linen jacket that almost matched her hair.  
  
Anderson stood up and walked over to the twin sofas by the big picture window where he often briefed G-Force, gesturing for Jones to follow. “Remember when this window got shot all to hell and you tackled me to the carpet?”  
  
Jones chuckled. “I doubt I’ll forget it. You were furious with me.”  
  
“Only for a moment,” Anderson recalled, “then I saw the bullet holes and realised you’d just saved me from having my damned fool head blown clean off.”  
  
Jones settled into a seat on one of the sofas. “Was that when you started taking me seriously?” she asked.  
  
Anderson sat on the sofa opposite Jones. “I’m ashamed to admit it, but yes. I _should_ have been taking you seriously from the start.”  
  
“What, when you and Keyop saved me from a giant dragonfly in the carpark at Seahorse Base? I wasn’t taking you particularly seriously at the time as I recall. I thought you were a bloody idiot.”  
  
“We were all on a steep learning curve that day,” Anderson said, thinking back to one of Spectra’s earliest attacks on Earth, “and I have to admit, there have been times when I’ve been guilty of being a bloody idiot.”  
  
Jones folded her arms. “Who are you and what have you done with David Anderson?”  
  
Anderson leaned back in his seat. “How much do you know about my experiences when I was captured?”  
  
“There was what Doctor Shoban told us when I had him at gunpoint,” Jones said. “Then what you told me afterward: a series of virtual reality scenarios designed to put you through the emotional and psychological wringer. Shoban said the process was designed to use the subject’s subconscious to build up versions of ideal worlds and then tear them down again.”  
  
“More or less,” Anderson said. “It reminds me of _The Wizard of Oz_. Remember that old 2D movie?”  
  
“Please don’t tell me you were skipping along in blue gingham and singing about following the Yellow Brick Road.”  
  
“There was no singing,” Anderson said. “The scenarios were populated with people I know... and people I knew. It seemed very real. It still does, sometimes.”  
  
Jones leaned forward, perching on the edge of the cushion. “Are you about to tell me that I was in it? I wasn’t the scarecrow, was I?” she asked. “Or the lion. Please, not the bloody lion.”  
  
Anderson chuckled at the idea. “Do you remember the part near the end of the movie where the Wizard is unmasked as a fraud?”  
  
Jones straightened and put her hands on her hips in mock outrage. “ _Toto_?” she exclaimed. “I was the _dog_?”  
  
Anderson held his hands up as if to fend off the accusation. “Only figuratively! What I mean to say is that you were the one who pulled the curtain aside. You – or rather my subconscious conceptualisation of you – were my anchor to reality. You kept telling me that things weren’t right. I feel I can trust you. If you aren’t comfortable with that, then I’ll –”  
  
“Don’t,” Jones snapped. “Don’t you dare step away and use my emotional comfort zone as an excuse. If you need to confide in me, you know you can. You know I... You know I’m here if you need me.”  
  
“What about you?” Anderson ventured. “What do you need?”  
  
“According to Doctor McCall, I simply need time to process what happened. I wasn’t put through that infernal machine. We lesser mortals simply had to outsmart some Spectran conscripts and do what we’d been trained to do. Doctor McCall debriefed us personally given the sensitive nature of the incident.”  
  
“So have they declared you sane yet?” Anderson asked.  
  
“I try not to think about it,” Jones said. “I’m still trying to get my head around you equating me to a small nondescript terrier. I suppose there could be subtler ways of calling me a bitch but I have to hand it to you for creativity.”  
  
“How does one simple analogy get me into so much trouble?” Anderson groaned.  
  
“It gets worse. Now I’ve got a mental image of Zoltar in a pointy black hat saying –”  
  
Anderson knew what was coming and joined in. “ _I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too_!” they chorused. The laughter bubbled up – mostly amusement, but with a distinct tinge of hysteria.  
  
Gunnery Sergeant McAllister peered in through the doorway. “Are you okay, Sirs?”  
  
Anderson took a deep breath. “Sorry, Gunny.”  
  
Jones was contrite. “Sorry, Gunny. Didn’t mean to alarm you.”  
  
“Okay,” McAllister said, “only... you generally don’t laugh an awful lot, Colonel.”  
  
“Would you feel better if I submitted to a retina scan?” Jones offered, having recovered her aplomb. “The last time I saw the psychologist, she was fairly confident I wasn’t about to go postal.”  
  
“Won’t be necessary,” McAllister said. “So... there’s no actual crazy in the house, right?”  
  
“It’s debatable,” Anderson said.  
  
“Knowing is half the battle, sir,” McAllister intoned and stalked back to his desk, shaking his head at the idiocy of his alleged superiors.  
  
“I’m fairly sure that wasn’t maniacal laughter,” Jones said. “What do they say about it in Comparative Megalomania one-oh-one?”  
  
“Movie references don’t count,” Anderson said. “Maniacal laughter’s supposed to follow a statement such as, ‘the fools, I’ll show them all,’ or ‘soon the galaxy will be mine,’ that kind of thing, oh, and there’s gesturing,” Anderson added helpfully. “Lots of gesturing.”  
  
“Do you think we frightened Gunny?” Jones asked.  
  
“He’s faced scarier things than us,” Anderson said. Jones raised an eyebrow at that.  
  
Major Alban strode into the office without knocking and glared at her protection assignment. “What’s going on here?”  
  
“ _The Wizard of Oz_ ,” Jones said. “You had to be there.”  
  
“I think I should get back to work,” Anderson decided.  
  
“Yes, quite,” Jones said and fled the scene.  
  
Shay considered her protection assignment with an expression that suggested he’d just been found on the sole of her boot. “You’ve been through some tough shit, Chief,” she said. “I get that. I really do. We’re all behind you, no matter what. Just remember, as long as you’re G-Sec Chief of Staff, you’ve got reserved parking in Al’s friend zone.”  
  
Anderson drew himself up. “Are you implying something, Major Alban?”  
  
“Not a thing, sir,” Shay said. “I’ll let you get back to work.”  
  
  
  
  
“I’m worried about him,” Mark said. He was making circles with one fingertip in the condensation left by his glass on the countertop at Jill’s café. “He’s got all the signs of having post-traumatic stress disorder.”  
  
Jason finished chewing the bite he’d taken of his chicken salad sandwich and swallowed. “It was only a matter of time,” he said. “It’s probably only a matter of time for all of us.”  
  
“Well aren’t you just a little ray of sunshine?” Princess said tartly. She stabbed at her salad with her fork and speared an innocent piece of celery.  
  
“I’m a realist,” Jason said. “Anderson’s been through a lot and he hates talking to the shrinks. There’s nobody to order him to a quarterly psych evaluation and… well… we’re all only human. Maybe this time it’s just too much.”  
  
“So, what happens?” Princess asked. “He gets assessed as unfit for duty and retires to write his memoirs?”  
  
“We should close ranks and support him through it,” Mark said. “Zoltar wants him gone, so I say we keep him right where he is.”  
  
Keyop finished his fries and wiped his hands on his napkin. “Why are adults so complicated?” he asked. “Is there any way of avoiding the crazy or am I totally doomed?”  
  
“You’re doomed, squirt,” Jason said. “Life’s complicated. It’s just that we don’t notice it when we’re kids.”  
  
“Huh.” Keyop gave Jason a disdainful look. “I’m going to do my best to try and stay uncomplicated. Being a grown-up looks pretty sucky from here.”  
  
“It looks pretty sucky from here, too,” Tiny said, picking over his salad in search of cheese.  
  
“What’s with you and the rabbit food today anyway?” Jason asked. “You going on a health kick?”  
  
“I dunno,” Tiny said. “I thought maybe… but this stuff’s pretty boring.”  
  
“Alice left for that scholarship on Aquatica today, didn’t she?” Jason said.  
  
“Wow, was that today?” Mark shook his head. “Sorry, Tiny. I was so caught up with the Chief’s problems I completely forgot.”  
  
“No sweat,” Tiny said. “She’s probably safer on Aquatica. They don’t get nearly as many attacks there as we do on Earth, and her parents are already there. I was only holding her back. We’re going to stay friends.”  
  
“And the rabbit food?” Jason prompted. “Tiny, if girls can’t see you for who you are on the inside – _”_  
  
“Change the record, Jase,” Tiny said. “Face it: girls _don’t_ see me for who I am on the inside. Alice did, and she’s one in a million. Maybe I’d like my odds to be better than one in a million for once. There are going to be guys on Aquatica who Alice sees every day, guys who are better-looking than me. Maybe it’s time I made an effort.”  
  
“You should talk with Professor Halloran about that,” Princess said. “Get him to recalibrate your implants so that you don’t just go into starvation mode. You know we can’t diet like ordinary people.”  
  
“Like last time?” Tiny grumbled. “They boosted my metabolic rate and all it did was send my appetite through the roof.”  
  
“They will have learned from it,” Mark reasoned. “Talk to the medical team, Tiny.”  
  
“You’re right,” Tiny said. “I’ll talk with Professor Halloran this afternoon.”  



	3. White Rook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meetings and administration are almost as inevitable as death and taxes. Mark angles for some time off. Anderson reveals why he doesn't talk to plants.

Roland Galbraith had convened an Executive meeting so that the other Directors could see that David Anderson was back in the driver’s seat and as good as new. Anderson chaired the meeting and it was business as usual. He couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he was out of his depth, however.  
  
When the meeting reached ‘General Business,’ it was Deirdre Kelly, Director Intelligence, who addressed the elephant in the room. “Is Zoltar going to keep coming after you, David?” she asked, skewering Anderson with a look from her shrewd green eyes. “Is this a personal vendetta or does it come with the job? None of the rest of us have been targeted as persistently as you have. It’s like _The Perils of Pauline_ , for crying out loud! I mean, should you even be going to this conference next month? You’re vulnerable when you’re off-world. Zoltar could try to capture or kill you. _Again_.”  
  
“I’m not living my life as a prisoner,” Anderson said. “Remember, we’re not dealing with an opponent who lives on or near Sanity Street. I’ve been considering staying here on Earth but maybe I should go to Albion on principle just to piss Zoltar off.”  
  
“Seriously, this bee in Zoltar’s bonnet has the potential to impact on succession planning,” Kelly persisted. “Oh, don’t give me those looks!” she admonished the rest of the executive team. “We have to live in the real world. David has to be lucky every time, but Zoltar only needs to be lucky once. And then what happens? It’s Roly’s turn to live life in the cross hairs? Who’s going to be willing to put their head on the block? It’s supposed to be a job, not a death sentence!”  
  
“You’re right about the succession planning,” Anderson said. “Fortunately, as you’ve seen during my absence, Roly knows the job inside and out. Any transition should be virtually seamless. As to what happens after that, I’m afraid we really can’t control what Zoltar does next.”  
  
“I should probably point out,” Galbraith said with a smile, “that neither I nor my family have experienced any attacks or threats against our safety. Jack’s report made no mention of any heightened threat against me. I trust that was because there isn’t one, Jack, not because you’re trying not to upset me?”  
  
Jack Lewindowsky, Director Counter Intelligence, chuckled and leaned back in his seat. “I swear, Roly, I’d never protect you from the truth. Bullets, yes. Truth, no. Which makes me think that it’s probably personal. Mind you, that doesn’t mean that if anyone else were to take up the job that Zoltar wouldn’t _get_ personal with the new incumbent once he’d been thwarted a few times, but if you look at the patterns, it’s all about G-Force and David.”  
  
“It’s about what scares Zoltar,” Galbraith elaborated. “It’s difficult to be objective about fear. G‑Force and David by association are what Zoltar fears. What would happen if we were to lose David is anybody’s guess. Like you said, Zoltar isn’t exactly a poster boy for sweet reason. You’d think that if he was targeting the organisation the attacks would be more indiscriminate, like the time he poisoned the coffee.”  
  
“Except that our intel suggests that Mala was behind that one,” Deirdre Kelly said. “She scares me more than Zoltar does. She’s rational. He isn’t.”  
  
“Agreed,” Galbraith said. “But unless Zoltar chooses to tell us what brand of crazy he’s smoking this week, or we get our hands on an unredacted copy of his medical record, all we can do is speculate. It looks personal, but we have no way of knowing for sure.”  
  
“You know,” Kelly said, with an inflection to her voice that suggested she was thinking it up as she went along, “stealing Zoltar’s medical records isn’t such a bad idea... I mean, what if the guy turns out to be allergic to peanuts or something?”  
  
Anderson waited for someone to make a crack about Zoltar being nuts. When nobody did, he remained silent.  
  
“I like it,” Galbraith said. “You want to take it on board, Dee?” Anderson said nothing, content to see where the group went. They were all looking to Galbraith, accustomed as they were lately to having him in the big chair. Anderson wondered what would happen if he could slide from his seat and sneak out of the room. Would they notice? They’d managed without him more than once in the last year.  
  
“I’ll work up a proposal,” Kelly was saying. “It’d be very high risk for potentially little gain, but still... Let me get back to you.”  
  
The meeting wound up and the directors left. Deputy Chief Galbraith was the second last to leave. “You were letting me drive back there,” he said to Anderson. “Are you okay?”  
  
“People keep asking me that,” Anderson said. “If I’m not, I’ll send a memo around.”  
  
  
  
  
“Tiny,” Bob Halloran said, “I have to admit that it wouldn’t hurt for you to have a lower BMI. The only thing I’m questioning is your motivation. Your self-esteem shouldn’t be reliant on your body image.”  
  
Tiny sighed. “You want I should go see the shrink?”  
  
“I want you to think carefully about why you want to go ahead with this. Recalibrating your cerebonics to help you lose weight is always going to be somewhat hit-and-miss. It could affect your performance in the field and it could get uncomfortable. You’ve always been resistant in the past and I need you to be clear that you’re doing this for _yourself_.”  
  
“I am, Doc,” Tiny said. “I’ll probably never look like Mark or Jason and I’ve never wanted to, but I’d like to try losing a few pounds and see how I feel. The implants won’t let me do that the usual way.”  
  
“True,” Halloran agreed. “It’s one drawback of the system – it sees any attempt at dieting as a problem that needs to be resolved. I’ll try designing a few tweaks and we’ll see if we can implement them. We learned a few things the last time we tried and I expect you to tell me if you experience _any_ unexpected side-effects. We’re still writing the book on cerebonics and you have to be completely open with the medical staff. Okay?”  
  
“Agreed,” Tiny said.  
  
“Okay,” Halloran said. “Last time we tried increasing your metabolic rate and it didn’t work out. This time I’m going to try tweaking your template to drop your body mass by five hundred grams. There’s a risk your system could react by purging so I want you in the lab all day tomorrow then twice a day for the next three days and if it works, we’re going to do the same thing again, over and over, in increments, until you hit a healthy profile. If there are any issues along the way, we stop, reassess and decide where to go from there. How does that sound?”  
  
“Like a plan, Doctor Bob,” Tiny said.  
  
  
  
  
Shay Alban’s tall and angular form appeared in Anderson’s office door at seventeen thirty. “Car’s waiting downstairs, sir,” she announced.  
  
The car.  
  
Anderson took his palm unit from its interface dock on the desktop and slid it into his jacket pocket. “Lead the way, Major,” he said, hoping that he sounded more confident than he felt. He followed Shay into the foyer, said goodnight to Gunny and greeted Lieutenant Falcone who held the elevator for them.   
  
As the little group stepped into the elevator car, Terry Falcone took a small aerosol from his pocket and administered a spray to his mouth. He swallowed and shrugged apologetically. “Nicotine replacement,” he explained sheepishly. “Major Alban talked me into it. A lot,” he added ruefully.  
  
“A wise decision,” Anderson said. “Keep up the good work.”  
  
The limo was waiting in the car park, engine purring. As Anderson approached, Corporal Mendelawitz opened the rear passenger door.  
  
Inside on the seat was a pair of red ladies’ pumps adorned with bows and covered in sequins.  
  
Dorothy’s ruby slippers.  
  
Anderson chuckled and got into the limousine, pushing the shoes aside as he did so. Shay Alban got in and sat on the seat opposite him. “Private joke, sir?”  
  
“Didn’t Al tell you?” Anderson asked.  
  
“I didn’t ask,” Alban said. “She plays her cards close where you’re concerned.”  
  
“Does that bother you?” Anderson asked. “I know you’ve been friends for a long time.”  
  
Alban shrugged. “Been friends since we were teenagers,” she said. “Been with G-Sec since we did our Federal Service out of high school. Thing is, in this business there are times when we can’t braid each other’s hair and share everything. If I need to know, she’ll tell me.”  
  
“You’re lucky,” Anderson said. “Not everyone can make – or keep – friendships like that.”  
  
  
  
  
Once Anderson was home he made a cup of coffee then settled into his study and continued reading the reports and memos that had been flagged for his attention.  
  
He considered making a start on the speech he was supposed to give at the Security Conference on Albion and decided that catching up on his other paperwork was as good an excuse as any to put it off until the next day. Besides, he could always just tell Colonel Jones what he wanted to say and let her write it. She was more benevolent a speech-writer than he was, generally leaving out terms like ‘cretin,’ ‘moron’ and ‘waste of space.’  
  
Anderson’s palm unit chimed and he answered it. It was Lieutenant Falcone announcing a visitor: Mark had arrived. Anderson got out of his chair and headed for the hallway. Mark let himself in.  
  
“Hey,” Mark said. “I hear you got away on time.”  
  
“Shay was all set to march me out of the office at gunpoint, I think,” Anderson said as he showed his adopted son into the study. “Do you want some water? I’d offer you hot chocolate but I forgot to buy milk.”  
  
“Water’s fine,” Mark said, so Anderson fetched a glass of water and topped up his own cup from the coffee pot. Mark had stretched his tall frame out as he settled onto the sofa when Anderson returned. Anderson handed over the water, then took a seat in his armchair and cradled his coffee mug in both hands. “How was your first day back?” Mark asked.  
  
“I survived,” Anderson said. “The limousine was… unexpectedly confronting, but the rest of the day was business as usual, mostly.”  
  
“Only mostly?”  
  
“I feel as if I’ve lost my edge,” Anderson confessed. “When I first took over the job three years ago, I felt as though I was faking it. It took me months before I felt as if I really was the Chief of Galaxy Security. Up until then I’d only been pretending and hoping that nobody found me out.”  
  
“Seriously?” Mark shook his head. “I always figured you were invincible, y’know? At least until you had your heart attack. I never think of you as having a moment’s doubt about anything.”  
  
“Mark, everyone has doubts. When I first started as Chief of Staff I felt like a fraud. Like I didn’t really belong. Today I felt like I was right back there again.”  
  
“You probably just need time to adjust. Since the war began you’ve been through a lot of stuff. What does Doctor McCall say? I bet she’s spouting off about ‘accumulated stressors’ or something, isn’t she?”  
  
“Got it in one,” Anderson said.  
  
“Yeah, I think she says that to everyone,” Mark speculated.  
  
“Maybe it’s true,” Anderson said. “Something to do with a war.”  
  
“At least you’ve kept your sense of humour,” Mark said. “Gunny said you were joking with Al today.”  
  
“You know, the way everyone talks about everyone else in Galaxy Security I’m at a loss to explain how we had so many undetected leaks and defections in the early days of the war – how did the water cooler grapevine miss all that stuff back then?”  
  
“Mother Superior laughing out loud is a newsworthy event, Dad. Or hadn’t you noticed?”  
  
“Don’t call her that,” Anderson said. “I don’t need the mental image of Al in a nun’s habit.”  
  
“So what’s the word about the conference?” Mark asked. “Are we going?”  
  
“I think so, yes,” Anderson said.  
  
“Oh, cool… You know… I had an idea about that,” Mark ventured carefully. “I think maybe that G‑Force could benefit from some team building.”  
  
“Team building,” Anderson said, keeping a straight face. “This would have nothing to do with the fact that it’s late spring where the conference is being held and that Crystal Beach is less than ten minutes from the venue.”  
  
“It is?” Mark’s blue eyes were far too wide for real innocence.  
  
“Actually it’s a great idea. You’ve all been under a lot of stress and you could do with some down time. You’ll need a couple of organised activities and a report at the end to justify the team building angle to Accounting but I’ll leave that to you. Talk to Gunny in the morning about booking some extra time before and after the conference – say, three days either side.”  
  
“Really?” This time, Mark’s surprise was genuine.  
  
“What, are you waiting for me to change my mind or something?” Anderson asked. “Of course,” he added, “there’s still the conference to get through, but once you’ve met your obligations there, you can disappear and enjoy yourselves on the condition that you remain contactable and ready to respond to any alerts if we need you. That means you’re going to have to restrict your activities to areas where you can get a decent comms signal.”  
  
Mark leaned forward in his seat. “What’s with that, anyhow?” he asked. “Zark’s been complaining to anyone who’ll listen that he has trouble scanning Planet Albion.”  
  
“It’s the electromagnetism in the atmosphere,” Anderson said. “Albion’s famous for its year-round global aurora. They have some of the most beautiful night skies in the known galaxy but it makes it almost impossible to maintain a trouble-free communications infrastructure.”  
  
“So why are we having a security conference on a planet with buggy comms?” Mark asked. “It sounds to me like we’re asking for trouble.”  
  
“Follow the money,” Anderson advised darkly. “The planetary government offered to cover all the costs and Secretary Claybourne made an executive decision.”  
  
“They’re calling Albion the economic boom planet of the decade,” Mark recalled. “I always thought it was just a bunch of redneck lanthanide miners on a frozen rock.”  
  
“That’s how it started out,” Anderson said, “and most of the planet’s still made up of mining towns and the accompanying holes in the ground, but as miners get rich, they move to greener pastures and start trying to establish a more civilised culture. Most of the wealthy miners have set up corporate offices in New Caerlon in the equatorial temperate zone. That’s where the conference is going to be held, and it’s where nearly all of the recreational facilities and attractions are, as well. Unless you really want to go and try extreme skiing, which I don’t recommend, by the way, you won’t need to leave the greater New Caerlon area.”  
  
“And what about you?” Mark asked. “Why don’t you take a couple of days as well?”  
  
“Mark, I just took eight weeks!” Anderson pointed out.  
  
“Wasn’t exactly a tropical cruise, though, was it?”  
  
“Not exactly, but I feel rested. Now, why don’t you go and break the news to the others that you’ve managed to convince me to give you some time off? I’m not going to start talking to the plants or anything. Besides, the _Ficus_ never laughs at any of my jokes.”  



	4. White Bishop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four weeks later...

The _Phoenix_ dropped out of warp and Tiny made his arrival call to the controller at ISO Carnarvon.   
  
The military space-lane bypassed the commercial ones but ran close enough that Keyop could engage the scanners and provide an image of the large space station that was Albion’s interstellar shipping hub. Albion was not yet considered important enough to have an ISO Star Dock, but the civilian installation was larger than most and had every one of its docking bays full of heavy freighters with six bulk carriers holding position abeam the station, awaiting their turn to take on the precious rare earth mineral cargo that made up the planet’s fortune.  
  
“Albion’s mining boom,” Jason observed. “Do you think there’ll be any planet left by the time we get there?”  
  
“Let’s take a look,” Princess urged. “I’ve been dying to see the atmosphere for myself.”  
  
“Keyop?” Mark prompted.  
  
“Here,” Keyop said, and the screens lit up with the bright face of an Earthlike world whose atmosphere sparkled and flared with pale, watery light. “It should look better on the night side,” Keyop suggested.  
  
“Give it a minute,” Tiny said.  
  
The team watched, rapt, as the terminator passed beneath the ship and the dark world underneath seemed to coruscate with ionisation in scintillating rainbow hues.  
  
Mark drew in a breath. “That’s… that’s really beautiful. And it’s completely harmless.”  
  
“Unless you’re a communications tech,” Princess said wryly. “Apparently if you want to make a packet on this rock without being a miner, being a comms tech is the way to go. But yeah, it’s gorgeous!”  
  
“ _ISS_ Phoenix _from ISO Carnarvon Base,_ ” came the call. “ _Enjoying our little light show?_ ”  
  
“ISO Carnarvon, ISS _Phoenix_. Affirm,” Tiny said with a chuckle. “I’ve flown this bird to a lot of different worlds, but I’ve never seen anything quite like this!”  
  
“ _Well, hey,_ ” the controller replied. “ _If we can impress G-Force we must be doing okay! We have an approach vector for you. Transmitting now._ ”  
  
Tiny consulted his console. “Got it, Carnarvon. Setting up for atmospheric entry.”  
  
“ _You can expect a lot of St Elmo’s Fire as you come in,_ ” the controller advised. “ _Unless your EM shielding’s on the fritz, it’s harmless. Shouldn’t be a problem for you, I’d say._ ”  
  
“Acknowledged,” Tiny said. He twisted in his seat to look over his shoulder. “Sorry, folks. Show’s over. It’s time to raise the heat shields.”  
  
  
  
  
When the _Phoenix_ touched down at ISO Carnarvon, she had an audience of all the personnel who could get away with not having anything better to do (and doubtless a few who had found a way to get out of the better things they were supposed to be doing at the time). Anyone who was hoping to see the G-Force team in person, however, was doomed to disappointment when the big blue and red warship taxied off the runway, hitched up to a tow unit and vanished into a well-guarded hangar.  
  
The _Phoenix_ ’s auxiliary power unit had wound down and the cabin lights were running on external power as the G-Force team finished their final shut-down checks and got out of their seats. They filed out of the bridge, collected their duffels then made their way to the cargo hold. Tiny opened the belly hatch and ushered the team onto the platform which lowered them at a dignified pace to the hangar floor.  
  
“Welcome to Albion!” a familiar voice called and Tiny nodded at Suzie Tranh, one of the Center Neptune regulars who had arrived on an ISO transport a couple of days earlier with two other engineering staff to ensure the _Phoenix_ was taken care of during her stay.  
  
“Hi, Suzie,” Tiny said. A quick glance took in the external power unit and the guards positioned around the interior of the hangar. “Take good care of my baby!”  
  
“Don’t I always?” Suzie parried with a quick grin. “She’s my baby, too, y’know.”  
  
“I guess she is,” Tiny said. He paused under the nacelle to gaze along the clean lines of his ship. “Hey, guys!” he called as he put his duffel down. “I’ll catch you up. I just want to do a final walk-around, okay?”  
  
Mark simply waved in the perfect understanding of one pilot for another and the rest of G-Force walked over to greet several senior ISO officers who appeared to be waiting for them.  
  
“You’re looking pretty good these days,” Captain Tranh said as she and Tiny strolled around the _Phoenix_ , eyeballing her surfaces as they went.  
  
“Been on a health kick for the last month or so,” Tiny said. “I don’t think I’ll ever learn to like celery, though.”  
  
“Tell me about it,” Tranh said. “I only have to look at a piece of cake and it’s straight on the butt.”  
  
“Looking at cake is hard,” Tiny agreed.  
  
“Is that a scorch mark?” Tranh asked, frowning. She pointed at a spot on the port wing, close to the pod.  
  
“I’ll check it,” Tiny said and without thinking, leapt. His jump took him high and he had to extend his cape wings to correct his course and touch down directly above the spar. He crouched, surprised at how easy it was to bend forward without squashing his belly – after four weeks of cerebonic adjustments and a healthy diet, there was still belly there, just not as much as there had been – and examined the leading edge of the wing. “Looks like a tile or two might need replacing, Suz’!” he called down. “We must have nicked something on the way in.”  
  
“Not surprising,” Tranh called back. “With all the low-orbit satellites this rock needs to maintain infrastructure, there’s a lot of junk up there. Apparently, Albion holds the Federation’s record for the most space junk acquired in the shortest period since human settlement began!”  
  
“Oh, great!” Tiny said. He jumped – more circumspectly this time – and made an easy landing.  
  
“We’ll carry out a full check before she’s even finished cooling down,” Tranh promised. “Don’t worry about the big girl. She’ll be fine.”  
  
They returned to the nacelle and Tiny shouldered his duffel bag again. “Is the engineering crew getting any down-time during this trip?” he asked.  
  
“Some,” Tranh said. “We’re mostly staying on base in case you need us. We’ve arranged things so that we get leave passes one at a time. You’ll have at least two fully accredited G-Force support engineers on base around the clock.”  
  
“We’re a real travelling circus, aren’t we?” Tiny quipped.  
  
“Travelling circus that saves the galaxy,” Tranh said. “I’m cool with that.”  
  
“Me, too. Maybe I’ll see you in town when you get some leave,” Tiny said. He looked over to where Mark and the others were still chatting politely with the base Commander and began walking.  
  
“Lieutenant Harper,” Mark said as Tiny approached. “Our pilot. This is Colonel Inge Ragnarsdottir, OIC ISO Carnarvon and this is Sophie Patel, G-Sec Director Planetary Ops.”  
  
Tiny squared his shoulders and saluted.  
  
Once the introductions were over, the G-Force team were escorted to a private room where they could change. The impracticality of having only one set of clothing that could transmute to battle mode had eventually been hammered into the heads of the estimable members of the budget committee and the agency had been allowed to invest a couple of hundred thousand dollars in a set of transmutable day uniforms. The transmutable material was almost – but not quite – prohibitively expensive to produce and work into useable garments, but Galaxy Security had managed it. The combined efforts of the Galaxy Security Executive and Finance teams had even managed approval to produce another set of nondescript civilian clothing for each team member in the next financial year.  
  
Tiny was pleased to notice that his blues were getting loose around the waist.  
  
“Man,” Jason said, “the doctors might be happy with your health kick, but the budget people might not be if you end up needing more new threads.”  
  
“They can get over it,” Princess said. “And so can we. I don’t want to think about Galaxy Security for the next three days. We’ve all been looking forward to this for weeks. Once the Chief arrives, we’re back on the job. Until then, it’s vacation time!”  
  
“What she said,” Mark told his team. “Vacation, here we come!”  
  



	5. Kings's Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chief Anderson complains. Jason believes that vanilla has its place. A drinking game uncovers the most absurd opera plot of all time.

The continent of Prydain was close enough to the equator to have a cool temperate climate, unlike much of the chilly world of Albion. Until recently a colony of Earth, Albion had reached a level of socioeconomic stability and population -- a remarkable feat, given the difficult environmental conditions -- sufficient to warrant full status as a Member Planet of the Intergalactic Federation.  
  
Chief Anderson suspected that the carefully spun hype around Albion joining the big league constituted most of the reasoning for Prydain’s capital New Caerlon having been chosen as the host city for the One Hundred and Seventeenth Annual Interplanetary Security Conference.  
  
To Anderson’s mind, security benchmarking certainly hadn’t been high on the list. 7-Zark-7 had been making regular calls to complain about the lack of signal, the poor quality of what signal he could get and the fact that he was effectively limited to accessing CCTV infrastructure in and around the hotel and other conference locations. Zark’s last call had reached Anderson that morning – with an emergency signal, as befitted the robot’s state of electronically-induced anxiety – while the Chief of Galaxy Security had been getting out of the shower in his hotel suite. There had been a significant pause (just long enough for Anderson to find a towel and mentally run through all the words he _wasn’t_ going to use) before the unfortunate cybernaut had been left in no doubt as to Anderson’s views on what constituted an emergency and what didn’t. Anderson hadn’t started the day in a good mood. While the hotel suite was comfortable, he’d had the damned nightmare again and was feeling decidedly cranky.  
  
By late evening, the Security Chief’s mood had eased somewhat and 7-Zark-7’s concerns were not prominent in Anderson’s thoughts. He was too busy enjoying himself complaining.  
  
“Cultural enrichment my eye,” he grumbled, descending the steps of the marble columned splendour of the Hoyt Opera House. “It all comes down to grant allocations,” he sniped. The night was cool without being uncomfortable and curtains of brilliant multi-coloured light played in the night sky overhead. The _après opera_ crowd was made up almost entirely of conference delegates and uniformed security officers. There was a modest media presence, which was almost exclusively local, with reporters waxing lyrical about how wonderful it was to have the Interplanetary Security Conference on Albion.  
  
“Whilst I accept that the link between interplanetary security and _La Traviata_ may be tenuous to say the least,” Colonel Jones replied, “I put it to you that the link between your criticism of the plot and the funding of the production is also somewhat less than concrete.”  
  
Anderson shot Jones a look that effectively communicated his chagrin. It bounced off the chagrin-proof mood that Jones had been in all evening. “And what’s got you so pleased with yourself, anyway?”  
  
“I happen to like this particular opera, and I thought it was well done,” Jones said.  
  
“I grew up with opera being played constantly in the house,” Anderson recalled. “I’ve had enough opera to last me several lifetimes.”  
  
Anderson slowed his pace as they approached the Galaxy Security SUVs that waited for them at the kerb. They stopped and waited for Roland and Liz Galbraith who were a few moments behind with their own security detail. Lieutenant Simpson, who was new to the squad and Lieutenant Falcone who wasn’t, stopped and maintained the usual discreet distance.  
  
Alberta Jones had opted for basic black this evening. With her ash-blonde hair and fair complexion, she was one of those women who could wear it well. Her dress was simply tailored with a modest neckline and was unlikely to lead any heterosexual male into any sort of overt temptation. The hem of the skirt stopped just below the knee and revealed lightly muscled calves encased in black silk stockings. Jones kept fit by running and while the majority of men would agree that she did indeed have nice legs, there wasn’t a lot of leg on display. She could have been going to church if it weren’t for the shoes. The shoes were slick, glossy black patent leather with just a touch of silver detailing above three-inch stiletto heels. The heels did amazing things for the female posture and were quite definitely sending mixed messages. Especially when contrasted with the tiny throwing knives disguised as hairpins that Jones wore in her coiffure.  
  
“So this is where you got to!” Roly Galbraith exclaimed. “I got cornered by the Gaian Foreign Minister. She keeps inviting us to parties!”  
  
“Honestly, Roly,” Liz Galbraith chided. “Irin’s just being polite.”  
  
“You wouldn’t say that if you’d ever been to a Gaian party,” Anderson pointed out.  
  
Liz Galbraith arched an eyebrow at her husband. “Exactly what aren’t you telling me, dear?”  
  
“It’s not so much the party,” Jones explained, “as the drinks they serve at them... I expect we could have warped all the way here and back on a single bottle of Gaian _eau de vie_.”  
  
“And what happens after the drinks?” Liz enquired.  
  
“I think that was when we left,” Anderson recalled.  
  
  
  
  
“I’m not hungry,” Tiny said again.  
  
Jason bit back a reply and stared at the menu. “Me neither,” he said instead of commenting on the number of times Tiny had remarked on his lack of appetite over the last four weeks. Jason had been focussing on being supportive and he had to admit that Tiny was losing weight and looking good, but he was starting to wish that his team-mate would stop talking about not being hungry.  
  
The five members of G-Force had decided on a sidewalk café as their last stop for the night. They had spent the day at a motorplex where it was possible to hire vehicles and instructors by the hour. The team had been checked out on 125cc bikes and had tried their hand at racing on the track. Princess was a gracious winner and had treated them all to ice cream afterward. Jason would have been smarting about having been beaten in the bike racing if he wasn’t planning on trouncing everyone with the go-karts after the conference. Mark had somehow managed to write the entire exercise off as ‘team building’ on Galaxy Security’s budget, for which he had Jason’s unspoken admiration.  
  
The team had checked in with Anderson on his arrival and to Jason’s relief, been left to their own devices until the next morning while the Chief of Galaxy Security was left to endure the dubious delights of the lead-in to the Security Conference. Jason was particularly grateful for not having to attend _La Traviata_.  
  
“It just feels so wrong,” Tiny said for what Jason thought of as the I-don’t-know-I’ve-lost-count-th time.  
  
“You know what feels wrong?” Jason said. “It’s like we took the entire population of the ISO Tower with us. There are more uniforms here than there are back home!”  
  
“It’s an important conference,” Princess said. “Now… am I going to go for decaf or hot chocolate?” she wondered aloud. “I don’t want to drink regular coffee this late.”  
  
“You know you’re going to go for the hot chocolate,” Jason said. “You always do. I might even join you as long as there are no pink marshmallows.”  
  
“Nothing wrong with pink,” Princess pointed out. “It’s one of my favourite colours!”  
  
“It’s the artificial raspberry flavouring I don’t like,” Jason said. “Vanilla has its place – in marshmallows and cake.”  
  
“Let’s not venture into TMI territory, Jason,” Mark cautioned.  
  
“Hey. Doctor McCall says there’s nothing wrong with healthy experimen-”  
  
“Jason,” Mark cast a warning glance in Keyop’s direction.  
  
“-tation,” Jason finished with a smirk.  
  
“You guys are talking about sex again aren’t you?” Keyop inferred.  
  
Mark buried his face in his hands.  
  
“Baking,” Jason deadpanned. “ _I_ was talking about baking. There was this time when Fran was making cookies and I asked why she was using vanilla and she said it was in the recipe. I said, why not take a walk on the wild side and use coconut essence instead, but it didn’t work out very well. I asked Jill about it, and she said that if we’d used a combination of vanilla and coconut, the cookies would probably have been awesome.”  
  
_“Healthy experimentation?”_ Mark challenged.  
  
“Whole wheat spelt,” Jason countered. “Organic.  With cranberries and rice bran.”  
  
“How come I never got any of these cookies?” Keyop asked.  
  
“Told you,” Jason said, “they didn’t turn out well. Besides, they were _healthy_.”  
  
“You should never combine the words ‘healthy’ and ‘cookie’ in the same sentence,” Tiny said, “unless it’s as a warning to others.”  
  
“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with vanilla,” Princess said, with a smile that made Mark blush. “Hey, isn’t that Secretary Claybourne over there?”  
  
It was almost automatic, Jason realised, that the other four members of G-Force didn’t turn and look but cast discreet and circumspect glances in the direction Princess had indicated. Sure enough, there was Stanley Claybourne, Secretary of Defence, seating his partner at a nearby table before settling into an adjacent chair. With him were Roly and Liz Galbraith along with another couple. Jason recognised the woman from the team’s arrival at ISO Carnarvon. There were people in midnight blue uniforms scattered around as unobtrusively as possible.  
  
“And isn’t that the Director Planetary Operations as well?” Keyop said. “The guy must be her husband.”  
  
“How’d you know that?” Mark asked.  
  
“His picture was in the briefing notes,” Jason said with a heavenward glance.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“So where’s our boss?” Tiny asked. “I mean, there’s the Secretary, the Director Planetary Ops, the _Deputy_ Chief of Galaxy Security and their security details, but no Anderson.”  
  
“He’s probably been sent to his room,” Jason said.  
  
“He’s probably tired,” Mark corrected. “He’s still recovering. Give the guy a break, Jason.”  
  
A waiter arrived and offered to take orders.  
  
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Tiny said, “but I’ll have the mixed berry yoghurt smoothie.”  
  
“That actually sounds pretty good,” Mark said. “Make it two.”  
  
  
  
  
The hotel lobby was still bustling when Anderson and his staff returned to the Grand. The Galbraiths had opted to go out for coffee with the Claybournes and the Patels. The relatively balmy spring evening meant that the residents and visitors could enjoy the nightlife and it appeared they were taking full advantage before the colder weather which was expected later in the week.  
  
Anderson paused outside the entrance to the hotel bar. “You know, Al,” he said, “I think we’ve earned a drink.”  
  
“No argument from me,” Jones said and followed her Chief of Staff to a corner table. Lieutenants Falcone and Simpson took up position. A waiter approached, warily negotiated the security officers and offered to take an order.  
  
Anderson consulted the drinks list and ordered two glasses of Glenfiddich on ice. As the waiter left, Anderson resumed his complaint. “We’re attending a security conference,” he said. “So far, we’ve had the ice-breaker at an art gallery – and correct me if I’m wrong, but I seem to recall that you had some less-than-flattering comments about some of the art – we’ve just survived an opera, then tomorrow morning we have Secretary Claybourne’s address, a panel and less than half a day of plenary sessions before we adjourn for an extended late lunch at an organic winery where we get to listen to a string quartet. Is it just me, or is there some confusion as to the difference between security and arts funding?”  
  
Jones shrugged and adjusted her wrap around her shoulders. “The conference’s major sponsor is the regional government,” she said, apparently determined to remain serene in the face of Anderson’s mood, “and they probably feel an obligation to showcase the local culture and prove to all us snotty old-worlders that they’re more than just a bunch of scruffy miners. Anyway, the prospect of lunch at a winery isn’t all that bad, is it? We’ve run security checks, and by all accounts the Sauvignon Blanc’s supposed to be very good.”  
  
“Wine I can deal with. I refuse to go near another opera – and if anyone mentions interpretive dance, I remind you that I’m armed – although not as heavily as you. I’m in a fragile state of mind and I won’t be held responsible for the casualty list.”  
  
Jones allowed herself a low chuckle. “I think the rest of the programme should be left-brained enough for you. Days two and three are wall-to-wall plenary sessions and panel discussions, although the body count might not be quite as high as what we’d get at an opera.”  
  
Anderson snorted in wry appreciation of the jest. “Oh, yes, _Opera for Dummies_ : boy meets girl, boy loses girl, insert tragedy here to facilitate boy dying, girl dies of grief and/or an incurable disease, all the while singing at full volume. Insert various deaths and injuries along the way. Pardon me for asking, but don’t you think Violetta had exceptional lung capacity for a woman with end-stage tuberculosis?”  
  
“There’s such a thing as suspension of disbelief, you know,” Jones pointed out. “I realise you’re not a romantic – in much the same way as bricks aren’t fluffy – but opera’s not about having a plausible plot, it’s about the music.”  
  
“I thought the difference between fact and fiction was that fiction had to make sense,” Anderson countered.  
  
“Not when it’s opera,” Jones said. “You ought to know that.”  
  
“Anyway,” Anderson pointed out, “you’ve always maintained that you’re not a fan of romance. What’s with the sudden change of heart?”  
  
“I’m not a romantic,” Jones said. “I don’t go in for all that nonsense. Look where it gets you: singing in Italian on your deathbed! No thanks.”  
  
The waiter arrived with their drinks and scanned Anderson’s credit card for an exorbitant sum.  
  
“Why not?” Anderson asked once the waiter was out of earshot.  
  
“Why not what?”  
  
“Why don’t you go in for romance? People who claim they don’t go in for romance usually say that because they’ve had it beaten out of them one way or another. Me, I’m sceptical because I’m so incredibly bad at relationships, but you... I mean, you got married young. Wasn’t that romantic?”  
  
“It was for a while,” Jones said. “Then I realised, you see. Harry was a hopeless romantic. He was so bloody romantic he couldn’t help himself. With at least three other women.”  
  
Anderson had the grace to wince. “Ouch.”  
  
Jones swirled the ice cubes around in her glass. “I forgave him the first one,” she said. “I swore after the second one that I’d leave if he cheated again, and I was working myself up to start divorce proceedings after I found out about the third affair. That was when the starship he was testing blew up. So not only did I have the grief to deal with, but the guilt as well. It was quite enough to be getting on with. I’m not falling for romance again.”  
  
“Sorry, Al,” Anderson said. “I didn’t mean to reopen old wounds.”  
  
“It’s all right.” Jones said, and gave Anderson’s hand a companionable pat. “It was a long time ago. I’m not about to burst into tears and blub all over you or anything.”  
  
“You must have loved him,” Anderson said after a moment.  
  
“Must have,” Jones agreed. “Why else would I have been so monumentally stupid as to put up with not one but two affairs?”  
  
“Was it... anyone you knew?” Anderson asked.  
  
“No. Thank heavens.”  
  
“Small mercies,” Anderson agreed.  
  
“You sound like you’re speaking from experience,” Jones said.  
  
“My fiancée had an affair with my best friend. Long story, but mostly my fault. She called off the engagement. He defected to Spectra and blew himself up over Stellar City. I only found out about the affair during the subsequent inquiry. Talk about adding insult to injury. Not only did my relationship fail, a long-time friendship end in acrimony, a trusted scientist defect, a city get held to ransom, the same city sustain extensive collateral damage when Ben’s ship crashed into it and G‑Force nearly get their tail feathers fried, but I came out of it looking like a complete idiot. Thank God for the Official Secrets Act, that’s all I can say.”  
  
Jones was wide-eyed. “Ben? You’re talking about _Ben Strecker_?”  
  
“The same,” Anderson confirmed. “Good old Ben Strecker. We were friends in college. He really was a great guy if you can overlook the betrayal, the defection, weapons development for the enemy, the earth-shattering _kaboom_ and the subsequent repair bill from Stellar City.”  
  
“Oh my,” Jones said.  
  
“You want to know the stupid part?” Anderson continued. “The stupid part is that Ben went to his grave believing that I’d fired him because I found out about him and Lily. The honest-to-goodness truth was that his project had been deemed too dangerous to justify continued funding. When we shut the tronic lab down, he was convinced that I was exacting revenge, so he walked. Walked away from the job, from me, from G-Sec, even from Lily. He tried to continue his research alone but managed to blow his own lab up. He blamed me for everything and of course he was ripe for the picking when Spectra came calling. You came in toward the end.”  
  
“Yes.” Jones frowned. “I found Lieutenant Falcone in a storage cupboard which you’d locked him in so you could go haring off to Zareeba on your own. If it hadn’t been for Mark…”  
  
Anderson grimaced at the memory. “I know, Al. I can pretty much recall the lecture you gave me at the time, word for word.”  
  
“It was richly deserved,” Jones pointed out.  
  
“It was,” Anderson confessed. “I’d like to think that I’ve straightened up and been flying right since then.”  
  
“Mostly,” Jones said. “At least since the time I tackled you onto the carpet, anyway.”  
  
“Right. I’m so glad Zark isn’t recording this conversation. It could be taken way out of context.”  
  
“What, with me? I’m the Ice Queen, remember? I’m well aware that the junior staff refer to me as Mother Superior.”  
  
“Only because they haven’t seen those shoes you’re wearing.”  
  
“Now, now. Sometimes a girl just likes to walk tall.”  
  
“How did we end up on this topic, anyway?” Anderson wondered aloud. “Wasn’t I complaining about opera?”  
  
“Does that mean I won the argument?” Jones teased.  
  
“Definitely not,” Anderson said. “Anyway, who says there was an argument?”  
  
“There’s usually an argument,” Jones said.  
  
“Not lately,” Anderson pointed out. “Lately we just talk.”  
  
Jones considered. “You’re right,” she said. “We’ve hardly argued at all since... well, since... Let’s see, we had that big row on Gaia –”  
  
“Which I apologised for,” Anderson was quick to remind her. Anderson leaned back in his seat and allowed himself a very small, but very smug smile. “If I remember correctly, our last actual argument was about _you_ putting yourself in the line of fire.”  
  
Jones folded her arms. “I’m _supposed_ to be in the line of fire. It’s what I get paid for.”  
  
“No, you get paid to provide a buffer between your Chief of Staff and a large proportion of all the stupid that crosses the desk on a daily basis. I fired you from the protection squad after Gaia.”  
  
“You said it was a promotion.”  
  
“Well, yes, _technically_ –”  
  
“You told me that after Gaia, you realised that you needed liaison and protocol support.”  
  
“And I did – _do_ in fact – need liaison and protocol support. Do you realise that the share price of the company that makes Advil has dropped ten points since you took on the L and P job?”  
  
“You made that up,” Jones declared.  
  
“Yes,” Anderson conceded. “Yes I did.”  
  
“How do I resist your charm?”  
  
“I think you told me once it was because I don’t have any.”  
  
“That must have been it.”  
  
  
  
  
The waiter removed several empty glasses, leaving the one lone shot glass of whisky that remained and placed a carafe of water and two clean glasses on the table without comment.  
  
Anderson took a sip of water and swallowed. He focussed, only slightly unsteadily, on Jones’ face. “ _The Nose_ , by Shostakovich,” he said. “Definitely.”  
  
“The _what_?” Jones asked.  
  
“Nose,” Anderson said again.  
  
“I haven’t heard of that one,” Jones said dubiously.  
  
“There’s a reason for that,” Anderson said. “Apart from Shostakovich.”  
  
“You seriously expect me to believe that there’s an opera called _The Nose_?”  
  
“If you don’t believe me,” Anderson said, “we could ask Zark.”  
  
“Let’s not involve Zark,” Jones hastened to say. “I’m almost afraid to ask why _The Nose_ has the most absurd opera plot of all time.”  
  
“Okay,” Anderson said. “A Russian official’s nose leaves its owner’s face, goes out and gets a life and a career. Four acts later the guy wakes up with his nose back on his face. It’s an actual opera.”  [1]  
  
“You win,” Jones said. “That’s the silliest thing I ever heard.” She picked up the shot glass and downed the contents. “There’s no way I can beat that. Game set and match to you.”  
  
“What I don’t understand,” Anderson said, “is that you’ve had twice as much to drink as I have –”  
  
“And whose fault is that, might I ask?”  
  
“Not going there,” Anderson said, “and you look completely sober.”  
  
“High resistance to depressant drugs,” Jones said with a shrug. “It sounds like a great thing to have, but try taking it to the dentist! Or getting to sleep when you’re space-lagged and sleeping pills don’t have any effect.”  
  
“I’ll have to keep that in mind if I ever have to shoot you with a trank gun,” Anderson said.  
  
“What about you?” Jones asked. “Are you feeling the effects?”  
  
“I’ll probably sleep well, which was my aim in coming in here in the first place.”  
  
“You’ve obviously had at least one too many if you’re revealing your ulterior motives,” Jones reasoned. “We’ve got a full day tomorrow. Time to call it a night.”  
  
Simpson and Falcone watched their protection assignment carefully as he got up and made his way around the table.  
  
“I haven’t had _that_ much to drink,” Anderson pointed out in response to Falcone’s look.  
  
“Of course, sir,” Falcone said.  
  
“I have,” Jones said. “Give me your arm.”  
  
“I thought you said you were resistant to depressive drugs.”  
  
“Resistant, not impervious,” Jones said.  
  
It was a short walk and an elevator ride to the door of Anderson’s suite, where Lieutenant Thorne was on duty.  
  
“This looks like your stop,” Jones said.  
  
“You okay?” Anderson asked.  
  
“I’ll be fine. Get some sleep. No sitting up doing paperwork!”  
  
“No paperwork,” Anderson said. “Check.”  
  
“I mean it,” Jones warned. “Sleep. I’ll know when I see you in the morning.”  
  
“Yes, ma’am!” Anderson made a mock salute. “I suggest you do the same.”  
  
“I intend to,” Jones said. “Good night. Lieutenants.” She acknowledged the security detail with a nod and walked briskly down the hall toward her own room.  
  
Lieutenant Thorne unlocked the door to Anderson’s suite and stepped inside to check the room.  
  
“Al?” Anderson called.  
  
Jones stopped and turned. “Sir?”  
  
“If you’re going to pretend to be drunk enough to need my help to get back to your room, you really ought to keep up the charade until I’m not looking.”  
  
“See, that’s why I don’t do undercover work,” Jones said. “Good night, sir.”  
  
Lieutenants Simpson and Falcone suddenly seemed to find the wallpaper utterly fascinating.  
  
“I told you,” Anderson said, “I didn’t have _that_ much to drink.”  
  
There was a mumbled chorus of, “Yes, sir.”  
  
“All clear, sir,” Lieutenant Thorne said. “Sleep well.”  
  
Anderson stepped into his suite and shut the door behind him. He changed into his pyjamas, fell into the ridiculously large and comfortable bed and slept like the proverbial log. For once, he didn’t dream.  


 

 

 

  1. It’s true, I’m sorry to say, that in 1928, Dmitri Shostakovich wrote an absurdist opera called _The Nose_ and it can be summarised as Chief Anderson describes. Shostakovich should probably not shoulder the entirety of the blame, however, as the opera was based on a short story of the same name by Nikolai Gogol. Ah, those Russians!




	6. Black Rook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoltar makes his move.

The squad had been hand-picked by Zoltar himself and Seltan was becoming increasingly annoyed with Phern, who had the jitters. Phern had been twice-honoured – both by being selected for this mission and by being given his particular role – so what did he do? He fidgeted and grumbled about Thorgsa being allowed to smoke as part of his cover.  
  
Seltan glared as Phern checked his disguise for the fifth time and muttered about wishing he could sneak a smoke for the twelfth.  
  
“Will you stop fidgeting?” Seltan growled.  
  
“Sorry,” Phern said. “It’s just – _”_  
  
“Just nothing!” Seltan snapped. “Control your nerves or Lord Zoltar will think he has chosen a craven for this assignment!”  
  
“Of course, Seltan. You are correct. I will compose myself.”  
  
“You’d better,” Seltan said. He tilted his head slightly, listening to the input from his commset.  
  
  
  
  
The time difference between Center City on Earth and New Caerlon on Albion was three hours. It was 0500 local time but to Security Chief Anderson and his staff, newly arrived as they were, it still felt like eight in the morning. The hotel staff were used to guests adjusting to different time zones – or not, as the case may be – and as such were completely unfazed when Anderson and his officers hit the gym at what might otherwise have been considered an ungodly hour.  
  
Ezrin was new to the hotel staff but he was good at what he did and the guests generally enjoyed the fitness sessions that he ran. It was inevitable that some – particularly men – would take in his narrow frame and assume he lacked strength, but Ezrin was wiry and tough. He knew how to work the machines and spot for those who wished to lift weights. He had greeted this morning’s group of early risers with his usual genial smile and showed them around the hotel gymnasium before being summarily dismissed by the Galaxy Security major who assured him that his services wouldn’t be required.  
  
Ezrin took up position behind a counter in the corner and settled in to read the morning news while the Terrans took their exercise. The group, all of them wearing Galaxy Security PT gear, seemed competent enough and knew their way around the equipment. Ezrin mentally pegged them as macho types, even the women. One possible exception, Ezrin noticed, was a somewhat stocky youth with messy hair who appeared to be the only member of the group not carrying a poorly-concealed sidearm. Ezrin’s eyes widened when he realised just how much weight the boy was bench-pressing. It seemed that there was more muscle under that sloppy exterior than met the eye.  
  
The woman who had told Ezrin he could sit this one out was tall and athletic with red hair and a wicked uppercut. She was sparring with a younger man who seemed to be holding his own as far as defence went but was having trouble actually landing a lot of blows on his opponent.  
  
Another man was exercising on an orbital cross trainer while a pretty young woman and a tall, olive-skinned man with broad shoulders, both in midnight blue Galaxy Security uniforms stood near the door, apparently on guard duty.  
  
Ezrin had familiarised himself with the guest list for the security conference and had instantly recognised Security Chief David Anderson when he walked in. For a middle-aged executive, Anderson was doing well running on a treadmill next to a blonde woman who had her own machine set to a punishing pace. The two of them were talking with easy familiarity, voices raised slightly in order to be heard over the electric motors of the machines.  
  
One of the men got off the cross-trainer he’d been using. He rummaged in his pockets for something and swore when he apparently failed to find what he was looking for.  
  
“Still addicted to nicotine, Falcone?” one of the men chided.  
  
“Give it a rest, Thorne,” the major said.  
  
The subject of the jibe excused himself and left the gymnasium. Behind the counter, Ezrin tapped out a message on his palm unit and sent it. He got out of his chair and headed for the door.  
  
  
  
  
Zoltar glanced up as Seltan’s palm unit chimed. He watched as his second-in-command read the message on his palm unit and tapped in a code before speaking: “Thorgsa. Your target’s on the move. Go now and intercept.” Seltan closed the channel and turned to Zoltar. “Ezrin’s on his way back, sire.”  
  
Zoltar cast an eye over his team. They had been carefully selected for this assignment from the ranks of the petty nobility, each of them tall, with fair hair and narrow build. With the right clothing, any one of them could pass for their ruler in a pinch. _Expendable, every last one of them_ , Zoltar mused. _Well, it isn’t as though I chose them for their intelligence_. Zoltar was uncomfortably reminded of what he had studied of Earth’s history when the royal families of old Europe had been unfortunately inbred. Jibes of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries about royalty lacking both brains and chins (as well as that unfortunate business with haemophilia) were dangerously close to what certain subversive elements on some of Spectra’s client planets were saying about Spectran nobility.  
  
Of course, chins weren’t a problem for the Spectrans, and as far as Zoltar knew, none of his large assembly of distant cousins had haemophilia, but the extended family hadn’t exactly been producing genius-level intelligences for the last generation or so, either. With the notable exceptions of Zoltar, Mala and S-9 (and there was another painful memory!) the flower of Spectran nobility appeared to be as thick as bottled yak dung.  
  
Seltan at least seemed to be capable of following orders and giving them as well. Zoltar suppressed a sigh. Seltan was efficient and brutal, but had clearly been visiting the privy when the imaginations were being handed out.  
  
“Sire?” Seltan was giving Zoltar a slightly quizzical look. Unimaginative he might have been, but he _was_ perceptive.  
  
“Ezrin has managed his task, I take it?” Zoltar surmised. Like the rest of his team, he wore a dark grey business suit. The cut of the garments suited his angular frame and he was aware that when he did venture outside of his hotel room, he attracted admiring glances. One welcome advantage of wearing a mask and formal regalia for official duties was the anonymity that he could enjoy when he took the mask off. Unlike the rest of his team, however, he wore a holographic mask constantly. Even these trusted men had yet to see his true face.  
  
“Yes, Sire,” Seltan said. “It is as Lady Mala predicted: the Galaxy Security personnel are using the gymnasium and are behaving according to their normal patterns. Is everything all right, my lord?”  
  
“Of course, Seltan,” Zoltar said. “Everything is proceeding according to plan, is it not?”  
  
“It is, my lord,” Seltan said. “You seem troubled.”  
  
Zoltar got out of his armchair and walked across to the window. The hotel suite overlooked the plaza. It was on the mezzanine floor so the view of the surrounding buildings gave Zoltar the impression that he was boxed in. It was something he wasn’t used to and didn’t particularly care for. The actual view of the plaza – crawling as it was with midnight blue uniforms – wasn’t particularly pleasant either.  
  
Zoltar lowered his voice as Seltan took up position at his elbow. “Look at them, Seltan: Phern is an accomplished mimic who has honed his skills at dinner parties! Thorgsa is a good actor, and if the stories of certain young men are to be believed, an excellent liar. Uelwan and Sorno are a pair of brainless thugs whose good looks are their only redeeming features and Ezrin is a genial nitwit whose greatest achievement is that he can do as he is told without tripping over his own feet.”  
  
“Sire,” Seltan protested, “the men are loyal to a fault!”  
  
“Of course they are,” Zoltar said. Not for the first time, Zoltar wished the Great Spirit had allowed him to bring Mala along. Still, it was probably better that Mala remained safe at home on Spectra. With Agent S-9 captured by Galaxy Security and the ISO dragging its figurative feet over negotiations for a prisoner exchange, competent royalty was thin on the ground.  
  
  
  
  
At 0800, G-Force were ready to go to work. Tiny had returned from the gym shortly after 0600 and convinced the rest of the team to go for a run along the beach. Once they returned to the hotel, they had showered and got ready to start the working day. The team was due to put in an appearance as part of Secretary Claybourne’s address which would officially kick off the conference proceedings in about thirty minutes’ time. They would be required to don their battle gear and stand on stage looking formidable and heroic for the conference attendees (and more importantly, the media). In the meantime, they were incognito as Galaxy Security officers. Keyop complained that he looked ridiculous in his ISO Cadet greys but accepted that for a boy his age to be in a standard blue uniform would draw suspicion – and Spectrans – like wasps after honey, so he griped and grumbled but did as he was told, putting on a brave face.  
  
The older members of the team had turned out smartly in their blues and blended in with the security details that surrounded the senior Federation delegates. G-Force were effectively hidden in plain sight. The team waited in the corridor with Major Alban and Lieutenant Bairstow while Anderson knocked on Colonel Jones’ door. The liaison officer answered, her uniform crisp and starched to within an inch of its life.  
  
“Come in,” Jones said. “I’ll just be a moment.” Anderson and his party crowded into the room – which suddenly seemed terribly small – and waited while Jones slid two long silver pins into her hair, then checked her sidearm and holstered it under her jacket.  
  
Anderson glanced at the hair ornaments. “Stilettos again, Al? You expecting trouble?”  
  
“It’s my job to expect trouble, remember?” Jones slid a pair of slim black stun batons into a large handbag and slipped the strap over one shoulder.  
  
“Of course. How could I forget that I’m dealing with one of the most over-prepared individuals I’ve ever met in my life?”  
  
“You’re still alive to complain about it,” she said. It was an old argument but Anderson found that neither he nor Jones ever really tired of it.  
  
Jones cast an appraising eye over the G-Force team, who instinctively straightened up as if for inspection.  
  
“Lieutenant Harper,” Jones said. “The uniform suits you.”  
  
The group headed for the elevator lobby, pausing just long enough for Jones to lock the door of her room behind her. The second car to arrive had enough room and they took it to the ground floor. Secretary Claybourne’s address was to take place in the ballroom. G-Force would transmute backstage and wait for their cue.  
  
The ground floor was crowded with conference attendees and security officers. Mark did a very quick mental calculation.  
  
“Is it just me,” he muttered, “or are there more security personnel than there are actual delegates?”  
  
“It’s not just you, Skipper,” Jason muttered back.  
  
“At least we blend in,” Tiny said. “Except for Keyop.”  
  
“Hey,” Keyop shot back, “there are about a dozen other cadets here. I counted. They’re acting as pages to the senior delegations. There was even a galaxy-wide contest to pick the kids who got to attend.”  
  
“I stand corrected,” Tiny said with a chuckle.  
  
“Cool it,” Mark said. “Professional standards, remember?” He cast a quick glance at Princess, who in Mark’s opinion had managed to make what he usually thought of as a nondescript uniform look far better than he’d ever noticed before. The tailored cut of the jacket and trousers and the smooth chignon at the nape of her neck made her look older, more confident and almost worldly.  
  
“So,” Jason murmured, quietly enough that only Mark heard him, “you understand the appeal of women in uniform now, skipper?”  
  
“Professional. Standards,” Mark muttered through his teeth.  
  
“You keep telling yourself that,” Jason replied with a grin.  
  
As they crossed the ground floor lobby, Lieutenant Falcone hurried up to them. “Colonel Jones, Secretary Claybourne’s Liaison Officer wants to see you right away.”  
  
“I see,” Jones said. She turned to Anderson. “If you’ll excuse me, sir?”  
  
“Of course.” Anderson said. “I’ll see you in the conference room.”  
  
“They’re upstairs,” Falcone said. Jones fell in beside him as Falcone led the way to a wide carpeted staircase. The elevators were becoming more crowded by the minute and there were at least a dozen people waiting for cars. The two officers climbed the stairs up to the second-floor mezzanine which ran around three sides of the building.  Jones caught a whiff of cigarette smoke as they turned down a corridor. Falcone shrugged at Jones’ reaction to the odour and said, “Sorry. One of Claybourne’s staffers collared me when I went outside for a smoke.”  
  
Jones rummaged in her handbag for something. “It’s a filthy bloody habit,” she said. “I do wish you’d give it up!”  
  
“Sorry, Colonel,” he said.  
  
“How much are you spending on those dreadful things, anyway?” Jones said absently as she continued to look in her bag.  
  
“Too much,” Falcone said. “I know. It’s just that giving up isn’t easy, ma’am.”  
  
“So they tell me,” Jones said. “Damn, where did I put my compact?”  
  
  
  
  
Shay Alban broke stride for a fraction of a second as a tone sounded in her earpiece. Anderson, who hadn’t missed the change in Alban’s rhythm, shot a questioning glance at his security coordinator.  
  
“Shay?” he prompted.  
  
“Emergency signal, Chief,” Alban said. “Better activate your earpiece. It sounds like an open channel.”  
  
  
  
  
“Want to powder your nose before you see the Secretary?” Falcone asked, at which point Jones pressed the business end of a taser baton into his side. Falcone froze.  
  
“This won’t kill you,” Jones said, keeping her tone conversational as people milled around them, “but it’ll incapacitate you and it’ll hurt like the blazes. Trust me on this. Just tell me what you’ve done with Lieutenant Falcone, then we’ll go for a nice little walk to meet some friends of mine.”  
  
The counterfeit lieutenant struck out with one hand. Something sharp scratched across Jones’ cheek and she stepped backward, instinctively bringing her hands up to protect her face. She dropped the bag she was carrying and lashed out with the baton, striking her attacker in the face. The imposter staggered backward, blood streaming from his nose. Jones followed up with a kick to the knee. Her opponent screamed and collapsed.  
  
A woman in civilian clothing joined the injured man’s scream with her own and hotel guests began to panic while security details frantically moved to protect their assignments while trying at the same time to find out where the danger was.  
  
  
  
  
Phern bounced on the balls of his feet, all nervous energy.  Seltan glared at him for what must have been the twentieth time, one hand to his commset as he listened in on Thorgsa talking with the Earthling woman, then swore. “ _Ignots_! Thorgsa’s been made! Uelwan! Sorno! With me! Ezrin! Phern, stay with Lord Zoltar!”  
  
Seltan flung the door of the hotel room open and ran into the corridor with Uelwan and Sorno at his heels.  
  
  
  
  
Anderson had been hustled away from the stairs and was standing, flanked by Major Alban and Lieutenants Rossi and Patrick, near the reception desk. He had his palm unit to one ear and listened as the unit at the other end of his call rang out and went to voicemail.  
  
“She isn’t answering,” he said, frowning. “I don’t like this.”  
  
“Me neither,” Alban said, “and you’re staying put until we know what’s going on.”  
  
  
  
  
Jones was securing her prisoner when she heard someone shout what sounded like a name. She looked up to see three tall slim men in suits jogging toward her. Most of the uniforms had vanished, having hustled their assigned conference delegates away, but there were still too many curious civilians around them to safely open fire with a gun. Several hotel guests were lingering to see what the fuss was about. Jones stood, drew her sidearm and raised her voice: “ _Run! Get clear! They’re Spectra!_ ”  
  
The onlookers, suddenly a lot less curious, did as they were told.  
  
  
  
  
Keyop glanced upward at the commotion on the mezzanine floor. He jogged toward the stairs, only to find the staircase blocked with a milling crowd where a group of panicky civilians were trying to hurry down the stairs while another group of security officers were trying to climb up. Both groups met about one third of the way up the staircase and progress in both directions had effectively halted. A hand touched Keyop’s shoulder and he spun, ready to engage. He relaxed when he saw who it was.  
  
“Mark! There’s something going on! Terry and Al just went up there!” He cast around frantically for an alternative route.  
  
Mark took a deep breath and let it out again. “Let’s find someplace to transmute that _isn’t_ a crowded hotel lobby” he said. He glanced around the lobby. “This way!” Mark said, led his team toward the bar, which would be closed this early in the day. He opened a channel on his communicator. “Zark, buddy, I need you to disable the security cameras in and around the bar for the next ninety seconds.”  
  
“ _Affirm, Commander_ ,” came the reply.  
  
Jason forced the door to the bar and the G-Force team crowded into the small space between the entrance and the rest rooms, out of sight of the occupants of the hotel lobby.  
  
“I guess it beats a phone booth,” Mark said.  
  
  
  
  
The three Spectrans raised their weapons and took aim at the woman standing over their colleague.  
  
Seltan took stock of the situation: Thorgsa, his holographic mask half-torn from his face, was on the ground moaning, while his target, a blonde woman in a Galaxy Security uniform with a bloodied scratch across her left cheek, stood over him. She was using both hands to hold her sidearm while a slim black baton dangled by a strap from her left wrist.  
  
“You might want to reconsider,” the woman said.  
  
Seltan snorted. “There are three of us,” he pointed out.  
  
“Yes, but you obviously want me alive for some reason, or you wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of impersonating a G-Sec officer to abduct me, and your friend here wouldn’t have tried to drug me just now. As you can see, it isn’t working terribly well.”  
  
“You’re still outnumbered,” Seltan said.  
  
“True,” the woman agreed, “but I don’t need _you_ alive.”  
  
Acting on pure adrenaline, Seltan threw himself forward and narrowly missed being shot. He heard Uelwan grunt and heard Sorno firing his gun with the odd dull sound that the tranquiliser pellets made as the weapon discharged.  
  
  
  
  
“Chief?” Mark called. The G-Force team, in full battle mode, ran over to their Chief of Staff. “What’s going on?”  
  
“Someone’s impersonating Lieutenant Falcone,” Anderson said. “And it sounds like they’re trying to abduct Colonel Jones. I think they’re up on the mezzanine level. Get up there and get our people back!”  
  
“Let’s go!” Mark ordered. He started to run, then stopped as he came up against a wall of milling hotel guests. “Hey! Out of the way! Galaxy Security! Coming through!”  
  
  
  
  
Seltan looked up. The woman was on her knees, apparently finally feeling the effects of the tranquiliser drug. Seltan walked up to her and knocked the gun out of her grasp.  
  
He didn’t expect the woman to strike out with the baton in both hands like a baseball bat and he barely managed to bring his left arm around in time to block what could have been a crippling body blow. Pain blossomed in his forearm and he struck out with his other hand, catching the woman across the face. She toppled and lay still on the carpet.  
  
“I’ll be glad to kill you once Zoltar’s finished with you,” Seltan told the woman. “Uelwan? Sorno? Thorgsa?” He looked around to see Sorno slowly pushing himself up into a sitting position. “Sorno?”  
  
“Bitch nearly got me,” Sorno grumbled. “Bullet grazed my side, but I managed to get a shot off. Damn.” Uelwan was lying on his side some distance away. At Seltan’s feet, Thorgsa was breathing, but didn’t look as though he’d be getting back on his feet in a hurry.  
  
“Pull yourself together, Sorno,” Seltan said. “Get the prisoner to Lord Zoltar, and hurry!”  
  
  
  
  
The G-Force team pushed and shoved their way through the milling mob, triggering more panic as they went. In sheer frustration, Princess cast her yo-yo upward where the automatic grapple attached to one of the floor-to-ceiling pillars that bordered the mezzanine balcony which covered three sides of the lobby. She tugged at the cable to check it was secure and took to the air.  
  
Princess touched down on the balcony near the elevators and found herself keeping company with a corpse, a bag, a pair of black batons and a man in a Galaxy Security uniform who lay moaning on the floor. Princess retrieved her yo-yo and walked over to the injured man, who groaned as she turned him over. A holographic mask sizzled, flickered and fell from the man’s face.  
  
Someone had made a mess of his nose and possibly fractured a cheekbone into the bargain. Either way, Princess mused, he was going to need surgery. She glanced up as the rest of the team finally made it to the top of the stairs and sprinted across to her, followed by a group of Galaxy Security officers with weapons drawn.  
  
Tiny motioned for Keyop to stay behind and walked over to the dead man. He bent and rolled the corpse over – in life he’d been quite good-looking, tall and slender with blonde hair. He’d been shot in the chest and had been lying in a pool of his own blood.  
  
“These are Al’s things,” Keyop said, having picked up a baton. “They must have taken her,” he said miserably. “Lieutenant Falcone, too.”  
  
Mark opened a channel on his communicator. “Zark,” he said. “I need you to access any and all CCTV feeds from the mezzanine level.” He closed the channel and turned to seek out the senior G-Sec officer. “Captain! We’re going to need a medic and a detail to take a prisoner into custody, then I want all the exits for this floor secured. If you find the enemy, don’t engage. They have at least one hostage, possibly two. Leave them to us.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” the officer replied, and began allocating assignments.  
  
Mark bent down and grabbed the injured Spectran by the front of his tunic. “All right, you. Time to answer some questions.”  
  
“Go to hell,” the Spectran groaned, and fainted. Mark let go and took a hasty step backwards as the stink of urine wafted up from the unconscious man’s trousers.  
  
“Great,” Mark said in disgust.  
  
  
  
  
Even as Anderson’s security detail had closed ranks around him when the disturbance began, other squads had done the same with their protection assignments.  
  
Galaxy Security’s Director Planetary Operations for Albion was standing next to Secretary Claybourne, surrounded by both their security details. She was speaking urgently into her palm unit. “I want the hotel locked down immediately!” Sophie Patel ordered. “Red alert! Nobody leaves and nobody gets in without ISO authorisation! I want all available personnel on this and get the spaceport closed right away!”  
  
Security Chief Anderson was dialling another code. “Zark,” he said. “What do you have?”  
  
“ _Mark has a prisoner, but he’s badly injured and isn’t talking. I’ve notified Director Patel who’s sent officers to take him into custody. The other hostiles appear to have used some kind of scrambling device to block the hotel security cameras!_ ”  
  
Anderson didn’t react. “On all floors, or just the mezzanine level?” he enquired.  
  
“ _Just the mezzanine, sir. That means they’re still on that floor!_ ”  
  
“It’s a distinct possibility. Mark, do you have ears on?”  
  
“ _I copy, Chief_ ,” Mark said. “ _We’ll start knocking on doors_.”  
  
Anderson closed the channel on his palm unit. He turned to Shay Alban, who was a picture of quietly simmering anger. “Shay, activate your off-duty team members and have them assist G-Force with a door-to-door search of the mezzanine level. Block off all staircases. If nobody answers the doors you knock on, just kick the doors in. I really don’t care if you offend people. In fact, be offensive. That’s an order.”  
  
“Yes, sir!”  
  
Roly Galbraith put a hand on Anderson’s shoulder. “You okay, Dave?”  
  
“No, Roly” Anderson said. “I’m as mad as hell. Furthermore, I plan on making a lot of people extremely unhappy in the immediate future. You can try to relieve me of duty if you like but I wouldn’t recommend it right now.”  
  
“Not on the cards, Chief,” Galbraith said. “I’ve got your back.”  
  
“Glad to hear it. Have Director Patel get some people over here to round up the hotel guests and start asking questions. Someone must have seen what happened up there!”  
  
A familiar laugh rang out.  
  
“Zoltar!” Mark called. It was a challenge as well as an accusation. The G-Force Commander had stepped up to stand on the safety railing of the mezzanine and was looking across the void to the opposite side where a familiar figure in purple had hold of Alberta Jones. She was struggling in his grip and he had a gun pointed at her head. Two men in suits, one of whom Anderson recognised as the trainer from the hotel gymnasium, were standing next to Zoltar, handguns at the ready. The rest of the G-Force team was nowhere to be seen. Anderson realised they’d scattered and were no doubt waiting for the right moment to move. Zoltar was standing near the safety railing at the intersection of a corridor which stretched behind him. Mark focussed on the fire escape at the end of the corridor. His team were on the move. All Mark had to do was keep him busy.  
  
“In chess,” Zoltar called to Mark, “you would say that I have you at a disadvantage. My pieces are all in place, and I have captured the queen. Will it be checkmate now, G-Force?”  
  
“Oh, man!” Mark shook his head. “ _You_ might say whatever you want. _I’d_ say that people who use chess analogies in situations like this are pretentious nit-wits who are obviously overdue to have the tar beaten out of ‘em!”  
  
  
  
  
Anderson drew his sidearm. Alban held out a hand to block his way.  
  
“Don’t try to stop me, Shay,” Anderson warned.  
  
For a moment, they locked gazes before Alban let her breath out in a resigned exhalation. “I can’t let you take us into a fire fight. You know that,” she said.  
  
“That’s your best friend up there,” Anderson said.  
  
“I know,” Alban said, “and Rossi’s a better shot than both of us.” Alban nodded to Nino Rossi. “Get up there and be a big damn hero. Don’t get killed.”  
  
“Got it, Boss,” Rossi said, his face grim. “Sorry, Chief, but you’re sitting this one out.”  
  
Alban glanced at Francine Patrick. “Fran, you stay here with me. I’ll need the extra weight in case I need to sit on our protection assignment, here.”  
  
“That won’t be necessary,” Anderson growled. He let his gaze sweep the foyer and the mezzanine floor above. The G‑Force team were ranged around the area, weapons at the ready. Zoltar had two guards that Anderson could see, both of similar build – tall and thin like Zoltar himself –wearing dark grey suits with green ties. They both had blonde hair and wore dark sunglasses. It occurred to Anderson that he should wonder why Zoltar had chosen a matching set of runway model types for this mission, but he pushed the thought aside. He had another priority to deal with first.  
  
  
  
  
Mark folded his arms, perfectly balanced atop the safety rail. “So, now that we’ve established your eligibility to have the tar beaten out of you,” Mark said, “let’s cut to the chase. What do you want, Zoltar?”  
  
“It seems the art of conversation is lost on the illustrious Commander of G-Force,” Zoltar said. “Such a shame. What are they teaching the youth of today? As for what I want, the contents of those bulk carriers you have docked at the Albion Space Station might be a good starting point. Those rare-earth minerals are quite valuable, but not as valuable as a precious human life, of course. That goes without saying, does it not, my young friend?”  
  
“Then why say it?” Mark countered. “You think that kidnapping _one_ protocol officer’s going to give you a bargaining chip? You know we don’t negotiate with scum like you. I don’t buy it,” Mark said. “Tell me why you’re really here.”  
  
“A precious human life,” Zoltar said again. “You have something I value. I have something _you_ value. You hold Agent S-9 prisoner. I will exchange her for your friend here. It was a big mistake to choose Planet Albion for your conference. The communications and surveillance infrastructure on this backwater world is a joke! And now the joke is on you!”  
  
He grinned at Mark.  
  
  
  
  
Nino Rossi, who had been edging his way up the stairs, swore under his breath.  
_  
“What is it?”_ Anderson asked, having picked up Rossi’s voice over the open comm channel.  
  
“He didn’t break out into maniacal laughter,” Rossi muttered. “Isn’t that when you like to take your shot?”  
  
_“Maybe he’s been reading the G-Sec training manual,”_ Anderson replied.  
  
Rossi reached the top of the stairs, his pistol aimed at Zoltar. The closest of the Spectran guards swivelled to train his gun on the security officer.  
  
“What’s this?” Zoltar crowed. “A rescue mission! How heroic!”  
  
Jones turned pleading eyes on Nino Rossi. Her hair had come down and she was missing a shoe. “Don’t shoot!” she called. She winced as Zoltar tugged hard on her hair, jerking her head backward.  
  
Below, Anderson froze. His mouth was suddenly dry and a wave of nausea rolled over him. He fought to dispel the dream image of a woman held hostage and then dying in his arms. There was noise in the earpiece he was wearing and he focussed on it: _“G-2. I have a shot but it’s not real clean. I’m going to try and get a better line of sight. Stand by.”_ Anderson looked up at the exposed beams that crossed the ceiling above the mezzanine. There! The merest glimpse of the tip of a dark blue cape-wing, barely seen through the glare of the lighting suspended from the beams. _  
  
  
  
  
_ In the fire escape stairwell, Tiny and Princess reached the mezzanine level. Very cautiously, Princess turned the door handle, only to feel it stop and click against a lock.  
  
“Crud,” she whispered. “We’re in one of those buildings where they lock the fire escape from the inside so you can only get out on the ground floor.[2] So much for flanking them this way.”  
  
“Oh, great,” Tiny murmured. “Occupational safety’s on Zoltar’s side!”  
  
  
  
  
Mark put his hands on his hips and regarded Zoltar through the blue tint of his visor.  
  
“You might have us surrounded,” Mark said, “but, see, the thing is, we’ve kind of got _you_ surrounded as well. What we Earthlings call a Mexican standoff, and as I said, we don’t negotiate with scum like you.” Colonel Jones was helpless in Zoltar’s grip, her eyes wide and terrified. _Don’t shoot_ , she’d said. Mark clenched his teeth and took a breath. Why would she say that? Was Lieutenant Falcone being used as a second hostage, somewhere else? Or was there another reason altogether? Mark glared across the void at Zoltar. No. He couldn’t second-guess himself, no matter what Al said. He let one hand cover his wristband and began to tap at the face of his communicator with a fingertip: _G-2: Take shot if clean. Otherwise stand by_.  
  
The communicator sounded: “ _G-1 from G-3._ ” Princess’ voice was low and quiet.  
  
Mark stepped down from the safety railing and deliberately turned his back on Zoltar. He raised his communicator and turned the volume down. “Go ahead,” he murmured.  
  
“ _The stairwell door to the mezzanine level’s locked on this side. It’s a fire door so it’ll take more than a couple of kicks but Tiny’s pretty sure he can bust it open. I could use the yo-yo but it’d be overkill and we could do more damage than might be considered ideal. What are your orders, Commander?_ ”  
  
“Hold position,” Mark said quietly. “When you get the word, bust that door open and engage.”  
  
  
  
  
Seltan took great satisfaction in delivering a slap to his prisoner’s face with his good hand. She fell to her knees, gasping with pain and shock. She had woken up enough for Zoltar’s purposes and would only live for as long as she could be useful.  
  
“If it were up to me, I’d have killed you already,” Seltan snarled. “I’m going to enjoy watching them break you.”  
  
The male prisoner struggled in a corner, restrained and bruised from Seltan’s displeasure when he’d discovered how Thorgsa’s deception had been found out, but it seemed the young man still had some fire in him. Seltan had been obliged to deliver his beating one-handed, thanks to the makeshift sling Sorno had rigged up for him before he’d gone with Lord Zoltar. Even though the arm was bandaged and supported, it had throbbed with pain with each blow Seltan delivered. It had been worth it for the pleasure of wiping the smile off the Earthling’s face.  
  
“Leave her alone!” the junior officer said, slurring slightly from the swelling around his mouth.  
  
“You don’t get a say,” Seltan told him. “She’s a senior member of Anderson’s staff. She has information. We’ll get it out of her one way or another. I hope she resists. Maybe I’ll let you watch. Then it’ll be your turn. After all, it’s ladies first.”  
  
“And they say Spectrans don’t have good manners,” the woman said with surprising clarity.  
  
“You killed Uelwan!” Seltan snarled and aimed a clumsy kick at her.  
  
He was off-balance thanks to his injured arm. The woman caught his foot and twisted it as she pushed upward, using her low centre of gravity and main strength to tip Seltan backward. He hit the floor, catching his head on a corner of the coffee table as he did so. Disoriented, he struggled and lurched to his feet, his left arm a blaze of agony from the fall. He surged forward with an inarticulate roar of pain and fury.  
  
The woman met Seltan’s charge with a fist to the face. Seltan staggered backward. The woman’s hands flew upward to her hair and she pulled two silver pins free.  
  
Seltan charged again. The woman shouldn’t have been able to stand unaided, let alone fight after being hit with a tranquiliser pellet and the drug from Thorgsa’s ring. Seltan’s head was still spinning from hitting the coffee table and the woman was able to dodge the full force of the punch he threw, but his hand caught her a glancing blow across the cheek, then something cold and hard struck home in Seltan’s throat and he saw a streak of bright red blood spurt past his blurring vision. He felt his strength failing. As he fought for breath, his final conscious act was to reach for his attacker with his one good arm. The last thing he felt was the hotel room door giving way behind him.  
  
  
  
  
Mark turned his boomerang over in his hand and took in the scene across the void to the other side of the mezzanine: Jones appeared to be unharmed in Zoltar’s grasp. Zoltar’s attention remained fixed on Mark while Jason was somewhere above, looking for a clean shot, as was Keyop, waiting and ready to move while Princess and Tiny lurked behind the stairwell door.  
  
Down the corridor some ten metres or so behind Zoltar, a door burst open. Two struggling figures fell through it – a tall thin man and a blonde woman in a midnight blue uniform, the once-snowy white of her blouse spattered with red. The man fell to the floor with blood spurting from his throat.  
  
Mark held his breath. His hand tensed, ready to cast the boomerang. “Chief,” he murmured, “there’s two of ‘em! I think the hostage may be the fake, but I can’t be a hundred percent sure.”  
  
“ _Two of_ what? _”_ Anderson demanded.  
  
“Two of Al!” Mark whispered.  
  
“ _What?_ ”  
  
“Stand by!” Mark hissed.  
  
The woman who had just arrived in the corridor froze then swayed unsteadily, a small and bloodied stiletto gleaming in her left hand, as one of the Spectrans guarding Zoltar pivoted and aimed his gun at her.  
  
“Hold your fire!” Zoltar called out. “We have an impasse.” He smiled up at Mark. “You don’t know who is who, now, do you, G-Force?” Zoltar taunted. “Only I know whether or not this is a double-bluff! Will you take the chance and kill your friend? How will that sit with you, I wonder?”  
  
Behind the fire door, Tiny and Princess exchanged glances. Princess opened a channel on her communicator. “What’s going on out there?” she asked softly.  
  
Jason responded, his voice low. _“There’s another Al Jones down there,”_ he said.  
  
“Okay,” Princess said. “Al was wearing those silver pins in her hair like the ones Shay gave me for my birthday. You know the ones?”  
  
“ _Yeah,_ ” Jason said. “ _The new arrival’s holding what looks like one of those pins. The second pin looks to be stuck in a guy’s throat. I’ve seen Al when she’s been royally pissed and it sure looks like her. Stand by. Mark, do you copy?_ ”  
  
“ _Copy_ ,” Mark said. “ _How sure are you, Jason?_ ”  
  
“ _Pretty sure_ ,” Jason replied. _“Call it eighty-five percent.”_  
  
_“I would’ve preferred a hundred,_ ” Mark said.  
  
  
  
  
Mark pitched his voice to carry across the atrium. “So you have two hostages, Zoltar,” he said. “Or rather, you have one hostage and either a decoy or a plant. Kind of a no-brainer to work out that your human shield isn’t as valuable now as she was a minute ago. I don’t like your odds.”  
  
Nino Rossi listened to a message coming through on the comm unit in his ear. He smiled grimly at the Spectran he was facing off with. “Hey,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to say this: are you feeling lucky, punk?” The Spectran swallowed and shifted uneasily.  
  
From the ground floor, Anderson had line of sight to Zoltar’s upper body and that of his hostage. He raised his gun and sighted along the barrel at what he could see above the safety barrier.  
  
He couldn’t see the woman in the corridor behind Zoltar but he heard her when she spoke in a loud, sharp voice: “I’ll get you, my pretty,” she declared.  
  
“ _And your little dog, too!_ That’s Al! Go!” Anderson ordered. He squeezed the trigger of his gun and his bullet went through one of the upstanding ears of Zoltar’s mask. The Spectran and his hostage made a dive for the floor.  
  
Rossi dropped and rolled. Two bullets slammed into the floor where he’d been standing and he raised his gun to fire as he righted himself. Even as his finger tightened on the trigger, the Spectran who had been firing at him staggered and fell as Jason opened fire from above with ruthless accuracy. The Spectran closest to Jones was next to fall. Mark kicked off and took to the air, as did Keyop.  
  
Jones lunged toward the man lying closest to her and her hand closed around the gun he’d dropped.  
  
Zoltar’s hostage had regained her feet.  
  
Jones took aim at the woman who had impersonated her.  
  
“No!” Zoltar roared. He threw himself in front of his erstwhile prisoner and fired his weapon. Jones’ shot went wide, she staggered, then she fell back onto the carpet, where she lay unmoving.  
  
Zoltar broke into a sprint, heading for the fire escape with Mark in pursuit. The door burst open and Tiny Harper’s right fist connected with Zoltar’s face. The Spectran folded up into an untidy shape on the carpet.  
  
  
  
  
“We’re clear here, Commander!” Nino Rossi declared.  
  
“Go with Tiny and Princess!” Mark said. “Check that hotel room! See if there are any more of ‘em. Try to find Lieutenant Falcone!”  
  
  
  
  
David Anderson shoved Fran Patrick aside and sprinted up the stairs with his detail in pursuit. He ran through the carnage and dropped to his knees next to the bloodied figure of Alberta Jones. The uniform jacket and blouse were torn, revealing lightweight body armour underneath, and the fabric was tacky with blood. Carefully, Anderson eased an arm under Jones’ shoulders and attempted to raise her to a sitting position as he felt for a pulse at her throat with his left hand.  
  
“Ow,” she said.  
  
“Al are you okay?” Anderson asked.  
  
“You…” she gasped in pain and her eyes flew open to focus on him in what he could only interpret as a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “What kind of a question is that?”  
  
“You’re covered in blood!”  
  
“Not mine,” she said. Her breathing was shallow. “Where’s Zoltar?”  
  
“Tiny brought him down,” Anderson said.  
  
“The one… The one who looks like me?” Jones pressed.  
  
“What about her?”  
  
“Listen to me,” Jones said, clutching at Anderson’s lapel with one bloodied hand. “ _That_ was Zoltar!”  
  
Anderson twisted around as much as he was able to and looked for the counterfeit Jones. “Shay! Where’s that fake hostage?”  
  
Major Alban cast around and shook her head. “Don’t see her, Chief.”  
  
“Help me up,” Jones said. Anderson began helping her to her feet but her knees gave way and she doubled over. As gently as possible, he eased her back to the floor. “Damn and blast!” she hissed.  
  
“I’ve got you, Al. Where are you hit?”  
  
“My side,” she said. “Lower edge of my ribcage on the left.” She coughed painfully and blood bubbled at one corner of her mouth. “I’ve definitely had better days,” she managed to say.  
  
“Lucky you’re wearing armour,” Anderson growled. “It could have been a lot worse. It’s bad enough as it is.” He glanced around and raised his voice. “Mark! Get over here!”  
  
Mark had an unconscious Zoltar over one shoulder in a fireman’s lift. “We got him!”  
  
“No we didn’t,” Anderson said. “That’s a decoy. Zoltar was disguised as Colonel Jones. Set up a cordon and conduct identity checks on everyone here!”  
  
“On it!” Mark dumped his burden unceremoniously on the floor. “I’ll leave this with you.”  
  
Anderson glanced up to see Shay Alban standing over him, concern plain on her face. “Get hold of the Director Planetary Ops,” he said. “I want the conference delegates in the ballroom. I want every single person in this place screened. I want teams sweeping the hotel and _I want Zoltar found!”_  
  
“On it,” Alban said. She walked a few steps and began speaking rapidly into her comm unit.  
  
“Al?” Anderson squeezed Jones’ shoulder. “You still with me?”  
  
“I think I might need a doctor,” Jones said weakly.  
  
“Must be your lucky day,” Anderson quipped. “I figure you’ve got at least one broken rib and a punctured lung for starters. Hold on to me.” He eased an arm under her knees, braced himself and straightened, lifting her up.  
  
“This isn’t how I envisaged the day going at all,” Jones murmured.  
  
“Chief!” Princess said. “We found Terry. He’s been beaten up, but I think he’ll be okay.”  
  
“Keep the prisoner secure until the locals get here and take him into custody,” Anderson said. “Have Zark find someone with medical training to see to Lieutenant Falcone until an ambulance gets here.”  
  
“Chief,” Major Alban said, “I don’t know if it’s safe to leave the hotel even to get to a hospital. Zoltar’s travelling circus was able to impersonate Terry and Al. We have to assume that others – even first responders – could be compromised.”  
  
Anderson frowned, his thoughts racing. “Send someone to my room. Get the medical kit – the one with the G‑Force emblem on it. I’m taking Al to the ballroom. I need that equipment as fast as possible. And have someone bring Lieutenant Falcone as well.”  
  
  
  
  
Mark paced the length of the plaza in front of the hotel, cape wings billowing in the breeze as he moved. The hotel had been secured and the plaza had been cordoned off by uniformed Galaxy Security officers. Several Spectrans had been captured attempting to access the hotel – far fewer than Zoltar had claimed to have – and they were being escorted away by security staff who gave Mark a wide berth, unwilling to get anywhere near the almost-palpable aura of rage that surrounded the G-Force Commander.  
  
One unfortunate corporal who had clearly drawn the short straw edged his way toward Mark, clutching an electronic clipboard like a shield. He saluted from the hopefully safe distance of about four metres away. “Uh… Sir?” he ventured. Mark noticed that the man looked as though he hadn’t seen the inside of a gymnasium in quite some time. Mark was so used to seeing – and training – Anderson’s security staff, he’d forgotten that not everyone in Galaxy Security kept themselves in peak physical condition.  
  
“Report!” Mark snapped.  
  
“Everyone’s been stopped and their identity checked, sir. There was some holographic disguise equipment found in the room the Spectrans were using but we didn’t find anyone carrying any kind of identity-altering gear.” The corporal swallowed. “Sorry, sir.”  
  
Mark took a deep breath. “You’ve checked _everyone_? Fingerprints? Retina scans?”  
  
“Sir! Yes, sir!”  
  
“Hotel staff? Bystanders? Our own personnel?”  
  
“Yes sir!” By now, the corporal was visibly shaking.  
  
“Dismissed,” Mark growled and turned away.  
  
The corporal walked toward the security cordon. He glanced over his shoulder to see Mark, hands on hips, glaring into the overcast sky as if to call down the wrath of the gods. Satisfied that Mark’s attention was elsewhere, he exchanged salutes with a security officer and strode purposefully down the street holding the clipboard. People with clipboards generally have places to be.  
  
Once he’d turned the corner into an alleyway, the man let the clipboard fall to the ground with a clatter. He looked all around to check that nobody was watching then activated a small control inside his jacket. His clothing seemed to swirl around him and change to a grubby brown hooded sweatshirt and faded blue jeans. He grew taller and thinner while his hair changed from black to sandy brown. He readjusted his clothing, then walked casually out of the alleyway and strolled down the street.  
  
  
  
  
“Commander!”  
  
Mark turned around to see Major Alban striding across the plaza toward him.  
  
“What is it, Shay?”  
  
“We just got through triple checking IDs on everyone in this dump,” Alban said. “We haven’t heard anything yet. We got zilch. It’s like Zoltar just up and evaporated!”  
  
“I know,” Mark said. “Corporal… what’s-his-face – the short pudgy one – just gave me the report.”  
  
“What corporal?” Alban asked. “We didn’t send any… Oh, _shit_! Which way did he go?”  
  
Mark spun on one heel and sprinted toward the security cordon.  
  
Two minutes later he found a discarded clipboard lying in an alleyway.  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  1. Crazy as it sounds, in some buildings, you can’t open the fire escape doors from the inside of the stairwell unless you have a pass or a key. I worked in one once where the doors were locked on all the even-numbered floors, which made life problematic if the elevators were busy or if you just preferred to use the stairs, which I did. (If I wanted to reach an even-numbered floor, I’d take the stairs to the next odd-numbered floor and then take the elevator the rest of the way.) Naturally the ground floor exit door opened from the inside but not from the outside. The locks _probably_ had an auto-release mechanism in the event that the alarms were activated, but I wasn’t on the fire team in that job so I wasn’t in the loop when it came to that stuff in those days. Kicking down a fire door would be close to impossible for a normal human being, but for Tiny Harper with some help from Princess, it’s probably achievable. Don’t try this at home.



 


	7. White Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galaxy Security - only the largest intelligence agency in the Milky Way - finally finds out that Zoltar has "Special Powers."

In the white hospital room, the bed was white with white sheets and a white blanket. Alberta Jones lay still and quiet, bruises and cuts dark and angry on her pale skin. Her fair hair lay to one side of her head and spilled over the edge of the pillow. The only real colour in the room seemed to come from the screens of the biomedical equipment monitoring the progress of the medical nanites that were working to repair the damage from the impact of the Spectran bullet.  
  
Shay Alban knocked softly at the door and stepped past Lieutenants Patrick and Rossi, carrying her hat and a plastic bag.  
  
“How’s she doing?” Alban asked.  
  
Anderson looked up from the chair next to the bed. He was holding Jones’ right hand with its split and bruised knuckles. “She put up a hell of a fight,” he said, indicating the injured hand. Neat rows of stitches had closed the wounds but the bruises would take a while to heal.  
  
“Of course she did,” Alban said. “She’s an ISO officer.”  
  
Anderson let go of Jones’ hand and laid it on the blanket. “She’s been sedated for the last four hours. It’s normal procedure. The nanites work a lot better if the patient isn’t arguing all the time.”  
  
“I’m awake,” Jones mumbled, stirring and opening her good eye. “I told you: I’m resistant to depressive drugs.”  
  
Anderson stood and offered Alban the chair. “Al, you’re supposed to be asleep,” he chided. “The Resident told me she’d given you enough Valium to take down a horse. How do you feel?”  
  
“Like I’ve been shot,” Jones said. “Could be worse, though. At least the shooter went for centre of mass and didn’t blow my head off.”  
  
“True,” Anderson said. “I’m glad you’re… well… you’re not exactly ‘okay,’ but, still. It’s a relief that… that you’re… um…”  
  
“Not dead?” Jones suggested.  
  
“Yes. I’m glad you’re not dead.”  
  
“How’s Terry?” Jones asked.  
  
Alban settled in the chair, her hat on her knees. “He’s a couple of rooms up the hall. I just came from seeing him. He’s lost a tooth, some busted ribs, concussion and some real colourful bruises, but overall he’s in better shape than you are.”  
  
Jones pushed herself up on her elbows. “If he hadn’t been trying to give up smoking, who knows what could have happened? He hasn’t taken it up again from all the stress, has he?”  
  
“Al,” Anderson warned, “if your blood pressure rises they really _will_ have to give you enough Valium to take down a horse.”  
  
“Ugh!” Jones fell back against the pillows. “You’re insufferable!”  
  
“I seem to remember someone swiping the chip out of my palm unit so I couldn’t make calls when I was supposed to be resting after my heart attack,” Anderson recalled.  
  
“He’s got a point, you know,” Alban said.  
  
“ _Et tu, Brute_?” Jones sighed.  
  
Anderson retrieved a second chair from the corner and set it next to the other side of the bed. He settled into it while Alban rummaged in her purse.  
  
“Good news, girlfriend,” Alban said. She retrieved a plastic zip-lock bag containing two small stiletto knives with ornate handles. “I got your knives back from the medical examiner. One of ‘em had to be pulled out of a dead guy’s throat, by the way. It was pretty gross but I had ‘em cleaned up and polished. Your batons are back at the hotel.”  
  
“Thanks, Shay,” Jones said. She focussed on Anderson. “Still think I’m over-prepared?”  
  
“I stand corrected,” Anderson said.  
  
“Someone declare a holiday!” Alban drawled, then she chuckled. “Don’t worry, Chief. I won’t tell.”  
  
“Nobody would believe you anyway,” Anderson said.  
  
“So what was the point of all this?” Alban asked. “As a hostage-taking exercise it sucked big-time. Surely Zoltar didn’t expect us to cave and hand over Agent S-9! No offence, Al, but everyone knows we don’t negotiate.”  
  
“As an _infiltration_ exercise,” Jones said, “it could have worked.”  
  
“But why _Zoltar_?” Shay asked. “It was a hell of a risk, putting him in the line of fire like that. It makes about as much sense as sending President Kane undercover! What kind of payoff could possibly justify putting him in that kind of danger?”  
  
“It was the disguise,” Jones said. “It wasn’t holographic. Think about it: he’s taller than me, which means he had to reduce his height in order to impersonate me. There’s no technology we know of that can do that, is there? Maybe it’s something only he can do.”  
  
“He’s some kind of… of… _shape shifter_?” Anderson surmised. “Al, that’s… that’s the stuff of myth and fairy tales.”  
  
“I saw it,” Jones insisted. “He had his men hold me up in front of him and he grabbed me by the throat. Then he laughed and he _changed._ I watched him shrink and turn into me. It shouldn’t be possible, but he did it.”  
  
A nurse appeared in the doorway. “Colonel Jones, the monitors show that your blood pressure is coming up again. I’m calling the Resident. Clearly the diazepam isn’t working.”  
  
“I could’ve told you that,” Jones muttered rebelliously as the nurse left.  
  
“Well, they know now,” Anderson said.  
  
“We should let you rest,” Alban said. She stood and put the plastic bag she’d brought on the chair she’d just vacated. “Some clean things,” she said. “I’ll have your spare uniform brought over when you’re ready to be discharged. Your other one’s a write-off, I’m afraid, but Zark wanted me to let you know that he’s put an order in for a new one with your measurements. Oh, and in light of what you just said, I’m going to put guards on your room and Terry’s as well. I don’t want to take any chances.”  
  
“Good thinking,” Anderson said. “We’ll have a full debrief as soon as you’re well enough, Al.”  
  
“Come on, Chief, let’s leave this gal to heal up.” Alban hustled Anderson out of the room and turned to Lieutenant Rossi. “Nino, I have the watch. Wait here and keep an eye on our people until we can get some locals over.”  
  
“Yes, Major.” Rossi said.  
  
Alban steered Anderson down the corridor with Lieutenant Patrick bringing up the rear. “I’ll drive you back to the hotel,” Alban said. “Doctor Galbraith’s doing a good job dealing with Secretary Claybourne but it wouldn’t hurt for you to show your face. Besides, Al’s going to get better faster on her own.”  
  
“What makes you think that?” Anderson asked.  
  
“Like you said: the medical nanites work better if the patient stays quiet, and it sure as hell ain’t _me_ who makes her heart race.”  
  
  
  
  
“An attempt was made today,” Stanley Claybourne said to the assembled press, “on the lives of ISO personnel and delegates at the Galactic Security Conference. Quick action by G-Force with backup from Galaxy Security prevented civilian casualties. Four enemy combatants were killed and two were taken prisoner; two Galaxy Security officers were injured and are recovering at ISO Carnarvon Base Hospital. The hotel has been secured, however the remainder of the conference has been cancelled. Private meetings between officials will continue with a heightened Security presence. My message to Zoltar is this: we will not be intimidated. We will not be broken. We will continue to fight you just as long as you continue to pose a threat to the Inter-Galactic Federation of Peaceful Planets and allied worlds!”  
  
The members of G-Force stood to attention behind the Secretary of Defence, maintaining a visible presence as Claybourne took questions from journalists.  
  
  
  
  
“Think back,” Anderson said. “Did Zoltar ever do anything that could indicate that he has some kind of… unexplained ability?” The Security Chief paced the length of the hotel room and back again. “We know that a holographic generator can be effective in the short term and it can change the outward appearance of the wearer, but it can’t make anyone appear smaller than they are.”   
  
“I always figured he was using holograms,” Mark said from the settee. “He does a kind of magician’s pass and goes all presto-change-o. The swirly thing with the clothes is classic holo stuff, but if that short Corporal really _was_ Zoltar, that puts a whole new angle on things.”  
  
“When he impersonated Secretary Claybourne,” Galbraith recalled, “I assumed he was using a hologram. Claybourne and Zoltar are around the same height and build. It would have been easy. Zoltar’s team were all of similar height and build and were equipped with holographic gear. He probably had an exit strategy that involved interchangeable Zoltars to let him get away while we chased decoys.”  
  
“He’s impersonated women before,” Jason said thoughtfully, “but I don’t think it ever occurred to anyone to compare biometrics. We don’t know if we ever even got to see the originals.”  
  
“Never a live original, at any rate,” Princess added darkly.  
  
“I’m fairly certain that Al would have been killed if she hadn’t recovered from the tranquiliser and struck first,” Anderson said. “It’s doubtful that he genuinely expected to negotiate a prisoner exchange for Agent S-9.”  
  
“They probably planned on interrogating her,” Princess said. “As a senior member of your staff she has a lot of classified information in her head, including stuff that goes well above her official clearance level. Like us, for instance.”  
  
“Then why the big hostage-taking show?” Tiny wondered. “Wouldn’t it have been more effective to just snatch Al when it was quiet?”  
  
“He could have done if the Spectran impersonating Lieutenant Falcone hadn’t made the mistake of smoking a cigarette before he came to collect us,” Anderson said. “They didn’t realise that the real Terry Falcone gave up smoking and went onto nicotine replacement recently. Once we made the first Spectran, it all went south and Zoltar was forced to act. It was all or nothing.”  
  
“So he would have infiltrated your staff as Al,” Mark speculated. “He could have killed you, then he could have impersonated you. He could have retrieved secrets, could have replaced any member of Galaxy Security executive – he could even have accessed the Presidential Palace if he played his cards right!”  
  
“Big risk,” Jason said.  
  
“Bigger payoff,” Mark said.  
  
“Is it really his style?” Princess asked. “You’d need nerves of steel to pull off an operation like that and Zoltar never struck me as Medal of Honour material.”  
  
“Maybe the adrenaline keeps him going,” Jason speculated. “Think about it: he only ever seems to fall into full blown panic when the walls are falling down around his big purple ears and Mark’s got him in his sights. And he _always_ has an escape plan.”  
  
Galbraith got to his feet. “At the moment, all we have is speculation. I’m going to head over to Carnarvon Base and spend some quality time with the Spectran decoy you captured, Commander. We’ll see what he has to say. Care to sit in on the interview?”  
  
Mark stood. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's canon that Zoltar can change his appearance. He even refers to his ability using the phrase "my special powers" in one episode where he takes on the appearance of a female cabin crew member in order to hijack a plane. While G-Force and company are aware that Zoltar is a master of disguise, there's no hint that they are aware that their least-favourite alien has any kind of shape-shifting abilities. At least not until now.


	8. Queen's Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the conference cancelled, G-Force are grateful to Zoltar for a couple of extra days off. Tiny becomes aware of new possibilities. A coffee conundrum is finally resolved with a confession.

“Travel safe, Chief,” Princess said. An icy wind swept across the apron of ISO Carnarvon and the five members of G-Force pulled their coats closer around them.  
  
“You enjoy what’s left of your down time,” Anderson said.  
  
“We intend to,” Mark said. “And with the rest of the conference cancelled, we get two extra days. Remind me to send Zoltar a thank-you card.”  
  
“I’ll see you all back on Earth,” Anderson said, then turned and climbed the steps into the starship that would carry him home. G-Force headed back to the terminal to get out of the wind.  
  
“You think he’ll be okay?” Princess asked.  
  
“I think so,” Mark said.  
  
“What were you two talking about this morning, anyway?” Princess asked. “You were in there with him for over an hour!”  
  
“Just stuff,” Mark said. “Dad stuff, mostly. I’ll tell you about it later.”  
  
“Okay.” Princess adjusted her scarf. “With this crazy weather the way it is, maybe you boys can try getting beaten by a girl at skiing.”  
  
“In your dreams,” Jason said.  
  
“Sounds like fun,” Tiny said. A lot of things seemed easier these days. Maybe he’d be okay at skiing.  
  
  
  
  
The executive transport ship _Pegasus_ had started her life as the plaything of a company whose board of directors enjoyed getting where they wanted to go in style. She was fitted out with high quality finishes and fixtures as well as warp generators capable of crossing vast distances at extremely high subjective speeds. When the corporation that had commissioned her found itself on the wrong end of some rather pointed questions about tax evasion, the ship had been confiscated by the Federal government and had ended up pressed into service for politicians and diplomats.  
  
_Pegasus_ had been retrofitted with some light weaponry for defensive purposes and was about to carry Secretary Claybourne, his staff and the ISO delegates home from the now-aborted conference.  
  
Terry Falcone was being fussed over by one flight attendant while Alberta Jones was being settled into her seat by another. “No doubt at all,” Secretary Claybourne was saying heartily. “A commendation at the very least.”  
  
“Really, Mister Secretary?” Anderson said, slipping out of his overcoat and stowing it in one of the overhead lockers. “I was thinking of firing Colonel Jones again.”  
  
Claybourne looked up in surprise while Liz Galbraith drew herself up in her seat, her expression one of outrage.  
  
Jones gazed out of the window at the tarmac. “And this is you helping me keep my blood pressure down, is it?” she said waspishly.  
  
Anderson sat down in his own seat, picked up the safety procedures card and scanned it idly. “You just had to go and be a big damn hero, didn’t you?”  
  
“Was I supposed to sit around and wait to be rescued?” Jones parried. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m too old to be a damsel and too bloody-minded to be distressed.”  
  
Falcone stifled a chuckle and winced.  
  
“I think,” Liz Galbraith said, “that David and I should swap seats, since he clearly can’t play nice.”  
  
“Please remain in your seat and fasten your safety harness for take-off, Mrs Galbraith,” the attendant said.  
  
_Pegasus_ began to thrum with power as her engines wound up and she taxied toward the runway.  
  
Jones relaxed into the deep cushioning of her seat. She had been dosed with some high-end pain killers and enough sedative to make anyone else sleep for hours. As it was, the pain had dulled somewhat and she was starting to feel drowsy. She watched the tarmac roll by with ever-increasing speed and saw it tilt and fall away as _Pegasus_ left the ground and climbed in a roar of thrusters. She closed her eyes and her mind drifted back to the hotel, to the struggle with the Spectran, the blood-pounding adrenaline rush of the fight, the bright flash of her knives and the blood. So much blood. She knew she’d killed him, even before he hit the ground. No-one could survive a wound like that. Then she turned and saw Zoltar feigning capture in the grip of the other Spectran and spoke the words that she knew David Anderson would recognise. She heard the gunfire and threw herself at the body of the dead Spectran, scooped up his gun and took aim at the copy of herself. There was the flash from a firearm muzzle and a blow to her midsection. She staggered and crumpled, pain blossoming as she fell and kept falling. She tried to cry out, but no sound would come.  
  
“Al, wake up!”  
  
Jones opened her eyes. Anderson was crouched in front of her, holding her hands. “Was I dreaming?” she asked. The ship was in cruise, the window showing the dark vacuum of space, dotted with stars.  
  
“Yes. It’s to be expected. You’re safe now.”  
  
“That’s ironic,” Jones murmured.  
  
“Why’s that?”  
  
“You’re here.”  
  
“They’ve obviously given you some _really_ powerful drugs,” Anderson observed. He let go of her hands and smoothed a few strands of stray hair out of her eyes. “I’m glad you’re not dead,” he reiterated, and returned to his seat.  
  
“You’d have had to train another liaison officer to make your tea properly,” Jones said morbidly. “Although they’d make better coffee, no doubt about that.”  
  
“I don’t care about the damned coffee!” Anderson growled.  
  
“Don’t you?” Jones said. “Seems to me you complain an awful lot for something you don’t care about.”  
  
“Paradigm shift,” he mumbled.  
  
“Oh,” she said, and her expression softened. “Maybe I should learn to make coffee.”  
  
“You know how to make coffee,” he accused her. “You do it on purpose just to annoy me.”  
  
“You started it,” she said, not bothering with a denial.  
  
“ _I_ started it?”  
  
“That day in Director O’Hara’s office when you appointed me head of your personal security detail: you conducted a very unorthodox job interview, and then you had the unmitigated gall to ask me if I knew how to make a decent cup of coffee! As if I was some kind of… of… _office girl_!”   
  
Anderson buried his face in his hands. “I’m going to have to spend the rest of my life apologising, aren’t I?’  
  
Jones considered. “It’d be a start,” she said.  
  
“We’ll work on that after we get back to Earth,” Anderson said. He got to his feet. “Mister Secretary, could we speak privately for a moment, please? Roly, I need you in on this, too.”  
  
  
  
  
Tiny Harper sipped at a mug of hot chocolate in the café off the main lobby of the Grand Hotel. Outside, the weather had worsened and the G-Force team had resigned themselves to spending the day indoors.  
  
“Got those heat tiles all sorted,” Suzie Tranh said, spooning up some of the froth from her chai latte. “After a little flight time you won’t even be able to see where we replaced ‘em.”  
  
“I’m gonna check ‘em when I pre-flight the old girl anyways,” Tiny said with a smile.  
  
“I’d expect no less from you,” Tranh said.  
  
They drank in silence for a few moments before Tiny spoke again.  
  
“Uh, Suzie?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“When… you know… earlier… you said, um… that I was looking… you know… better…”  
  
“Yeah. You seem more confident. It suits you.”  
  
“I… _confident_?”  
  
“Yeah. Confident.”  
  
“You weren’t referring to my, um… you know… weight loss?”  
  
“Is that what’s making you more confident?”  
  
“You mean…”  
  
“Tiny. You’re a great guy,” Tranh said. “You’re smart and kind and funny. Sure, it’s good to be healthy, but you know everybody at Center Neptune thinks you’re awesome. You never talk down to the engineers, and even when you disagree with us, you’re always straight up about it. Everyone thinks… _I_ think you’re cool.”  
  
“Right.” Tiny stared into his cup. “So, if I asked you out, you’d say yes, no matter what I looked like!”  
  
“Well, as a matter of fact, I probably would,” Tranh said. “But you’ve never asked me. I thought you had a girlfriend. And then there’s Major Alban. You seem really into her.”  
  
“Shay’s a friend!” Tiny protested. “And she’s old enough to be my… my much older sister!”  
  
Suzie Tranh laughed. “And your girlfriend?”  
  
Tiny found himself smiling again. “I’m kind of on the rebound at the moment, which is why asking you out probably isn’t a really good idea right now. Do you mind if I take a rain check?”  
  
“No problem,” Tranh said. “That’s another thing I like about you. You’re a genuinely nice person.”  
  
“Careful,” Tiny warned. “All these compliments might just go to my head!”  



	9. Sham Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anderson drops a bombshell.

The Galaxy Security directors sat quietly around the big boardroom table, absorbing the news.  
  
Deirdre Kelly was incredulous. “ _Zoltar himself_ tried to infiltrate the conference?”  
  
“Our prisoner sang like a bird,” Roly Galbraith said. “The hostage-taking scenario was actually Plan B, and it could have worked: G-Force would have rescued the fake hostage and there was enough tension that if Anderson’s liaison officer didn’t seem quite herself, it could be put down to trauma. Who knows how many people Zoltar could have taken out in all the confusion before he scuttled off and impersonated somebody else? Dave was at the top of the list, followed by Secretary Claybourne – who barely survived the last attempt on his life, if you recall – and any other targets of opportunity. The location with its patchy communications and surveillance meant that his chances of escape were high – hell, he _did_ waltz out from under our noses! We’ve gained some valuable intel, though,” Galbraith added. “We now know that Zoltar has some kind of shape-shifting ability and we can be on the lookout for it.”  
  
“We were lucky that there was no loss of life on our side,” Anderson said.  
  
“And your liaison officer killed an armed Spectran with her bare hands?” Jack Lewindowsky asked. “Seriously? Mother Superior?”  
  
“Of course my liaison officer didn’t kill a Spectran with her bare hands,” Anderson corrected. “She used a hairpin.”  
  
Deirdre Kelly chuckled, then sobered again. “Back to the business at hand, though. Zoltar does seem to have a personal vendetta going.”  
  
“Looks that way,” Anderson said. “I’m not sure exactly how or why, as to the best of my knowledge I’ve only ever met the man when he was actively trying to kill me. Maybe he doesn’t like not getting his own way. Regardless of Zoltar’s rationale, it’s a problem for the organisation. Aside from everything else, I have PTSD and no matter how well I manage things, you know perfectly well that there are always going to be doubts. We’re at war and we can’t afford doubts. I’m not at the top of my game and it’s best that I step aside and draw fire away from the executive team.”  
  
The board room erupted in a babble of denials and disbelief. Anderson held his hands up for silence. “I’m handing over the Chief of Staff position to Roly. Secretary Claybourne passed on the recommendation to President Kane who has agreed to ratify the appointment, effective immediately. Deirdre, I hope you’ll step in as Acting Deputy.”  
  
“But, Dave,” Jack Lewindowsky protested, “isn’t this giving Zoltar what he wants?”  
  
“I really don’t care what Zoltar wants,” Anderson said. “I’m not about to fall on my sword or retire to a hermitage. I’ll be taking up the new position of Director G-Force. I’m still going to be a royal pain in Zoltar’s ass, but with a much lighter workload, and if Zoltar’s vendetta _is_ personal, the executive suite should become a safer workplace overall.”  
  
“And what happens if Zoltar switches his focus to Roly?” Deirdre Kelly asked.  
  
“Unfortunately,” Anderson said, “we have no way of controlling what Zoltar does. What we can do is control how we react to it and do everything we can to keep him from achieving his goals.”  
  
“So Zoltar wins?” Kelly argued, bristling on her superior’s behalf.  
  
“No.” Anderson steepled his fingers, elbows on the table. “Zoltar doesn’t win. I’m still here. You’re all still here. There’s still a Chief of Galaxy Security pissing in Zoltar’s cornflakes _every damn morning_. It sends a message: playing the man doesn’t get you anywhere.”  
  
“Thank you, David,” Galbraith said, “for a mental image I really didn’t need.”  
  
“You’re welcome. Besides, Zoltar isn’t rid of me. As I said, I intend to retain control of the G-Force project.”  
  
“Yeah.” Galbraith chuckled. “I can have that after I prise it out of your cold, dead hands, right?”  
  
  
  
  
“So you did it,” Mark said. G-Force were clustered around Mark’s command chair on the bridge of the _Phoenix,_ making use of the ship’s secure communications. The tele-comm transmission from ISO Seahorse Base on Earth was pixelated in places and the sound was slightly distorted but it was readable. “You really did it. I have to admit I wasn’t sure that you would when push came to shove.”  
  
“ _I did_ ,” Anderson confirmed. “ _You’ll be assigned new office space – with actual elbow room – near the_ Phoenix’s _hangar at Seahorse Base so you won’t have to keep driving into Center City as much. We’ll divide our time between Center Neptune, Seahorse and Camp Parker with ISO Powell as an emergency backup if we need it. Your workload won’t change but you’ll spend less time commuting._ ”  
  
“Can I decorate the office?” Princess wanted to know.  
  
“ _Within reason_ ,” Anderson said.  
  
“What about your security detail?” Jason asked.  
  
“ _They’ll be staying on to provide protective services to the Chief of Galaxy Security,”_ Anderson said. “ _Shay’s going to put together a team to keep an eye on me. Jason, you’ll be pleased to know that Shay says if Lieutenant Patrick wants to transfer across she’ll approve the request. You’ll still get to see your girlfriend.”_  
  
“Well, that’s okay then,” Jason declared, “but it’s up to Fran to decide what she wants to do.”  
  
Mark leaned back in his seat. “I’m relieved that you’re doing this,” he said. “I guess you’ll be on a lower pay grade, but the stress reduction has to be worth something, right?”  
  
“ _Priceless_ ,” Anderson agreed.  
  
  
  
  
After concluding his call to Albion, Anderson looked around his new office. It was at ground level and the bulletproof laminated windows looked out on the wharf with all its equipment and acres of grey-painted naval vessels. If the entire fleet shipped out all at once, there might have been ocean views. As it was, the vista was partially occluded by a large bird dropping spattered across the glass and some grimy cobwebs which looked as though they could possibly qualify as vintage. Anderson made a mental note to have someone clean the outside of the glass at some point.  
  
The office itself was spacious enough to use as a briefing room for the G-Force team. Aside from the desk and the bookshelves there was a conference table large enough to seat twelve people and all the audio-visual equipment required. There was a sofa up against one wall which could, if needed, fold out into a divan for those all-night vigils when G-Force were away on missions. A large potted _Dieffenbachia_ lurked hopefully in one corner. Anderson didn’t like its chances but dutifully gave it a drink from the watering can stowed behind the planter. With any luck, someone else – most likely Princess – would adopt it and keep it alive.  
  
The plant duly watered, Anderson retrieved his jacket from the back of his chair and put it on. His car keys were in the pocket, an unfamiliar weight. He left his office, locked the door behind him and surveyed the G-Force accommodations. Mark had his own office as befitted the Officer in Charge and there were six cubicles in an open plan space as well as a couple more offices for the security staff to use. One door led to a small but functional kitchen and the other to the rest rooms and showers. Anderson walked out into the reception area where Gunnery Sergeant McAllister was putting a carton full of policy and procedure manuals on the front desk.  
  
“Thanks for helping me set up, Gunny,” Anderson said.  
  
“No problem, sir,” McAllister said. “You know, this place is further out than the Tower, but it takes less time to get here, thanks to the traffic.”  
  
“I won’t miss the inner-city gridlock, that’s for sure,” Anderson said.  
  
McAllister grinned. “Neither will I, if my transfer gets approved.”  
  
“Seriously?” Anderson asked. “You want to transfer over?”  
  
“Yes, sir,” McAllister said. “I mean, there’s a lot of prestige comes with working up on the Executive level, but this is G-Force! And like I said, there’s the traffic and the parking.”  
  
“In that case, welcome aboard, Gunny,” Anderson said.  
  
“Thank you, sir. You heading out?”  
  
“Yes. I’ll probably be gone for the rest of the day.”  
  
“Okay, sir. I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
  
“See you, Gunny.”  
  
Captain Maxwell stepped forward from his post by the door. “Heading home, sir?”  
  
“Actually,” Anderson said, “I’m going to make a detour first.”  
  
“Okay, sir.”  
  
  
  
  
Outside of the office (whose understated signage read ‘Galaxy Security – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY’) was the mazelike complex of Seahorse Base. Anderson negotiated the corridors with easy familiarity, shadowed by Josh Maxwell.  
  
As they walked toward the centre of the base, pedestrian traffic increased. Shift change had occurred and most of the personnel walking through the corridors appeared to be heading for the exits. Anderson and Maxwell negotiated the main hub of the base and headed down a corridor marked ‘MEDICAL CENTER.’  
  
Anderson was aware of the curious stares and whispers as he passed. He caught a glimpse of a 3V screen in the main reception area featuring a news story about the sudden resignation of the Chief of Galaxy Security in the wake of the conference debacle on Albion.  It seemed to consist mostly of the replay of his press conference with text banners and commentary from talking heads.  
  
The 3V was on in Alberta Jones’ hospital room as well.  
  
“I see you’ve been busy,” Jones said. She was propped up against the pillows, bruises still livid but changing colour against her skin. “They’re calling it a shock resignation, then all these people who’ve never even met you sit around and tell us why they all saw it coming. Makes you wonder why they describe it as a shock, really.”  
  
Anderson shrugged. “That’s the media for you. Never let logic get in the way of a good headline.”  
  
“Well, why don’t you have a seat and tell me about it?” Jones said. She switched the 3V off. “You have my full attention.”  
  
Anderson settled into the visitor’s chair. “It’s a long story,” he said, “and I’m really hoping it’s going to end with me getting the girl.”  
  
Jones smiled and reached for his hand. “You never know,” she said. “It just might.”  
  
  
  
  


_fin_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those readers who have stayed with me over the course of the arc thus far will be aware that Jason’s going to enjoy being able to say, “I told you so!” Knowing Anderson, however, I’m not sure whether Jason will be able to bask in the moment for very long. Seconds, maybe.
> 
> This isn’t the end of the arc. Zoltar’s still out there along with Mala and the Giant Blue Chicken of Spectra. The war is far from being won, Mark and Princess haven’t managed to sort themselves out and there are still stories to tell. 
> 
> Why don’t you hang around and see how it all turns out?


End file.
